Wings Off a Butterfly
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 11. Sam and Dean try to get themselves back on track with a simple hunt. However, the brothers learn with painful clarity that they will never escape what is in store for them and maybe, this time, they don’t want to.
1. Chapter 1

Carry On...a Supernatural Virtual Season

Episode 10: Wings Off a Butterfly

Authors: Faye Dartmouth and Ghost

Disclaimer: We don't own Supernatural or it's characters, basically any characters familiar from the show. They are properties of the WB, CW and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Carry On...A Supernatural Virtual Season picks up at the end of All Hell Breaks Loose part one and then ventures on with a what if scenario that takes the Winchester brothers through heaven and hell while fighting to save the remnants of their splintered family. See our bio page for more information.

A/N 2: There will be a short, three-week hiatus after the conclusion of this episode. Therefore, read at your own peril :)

Episode Summary: Stressed out by the vague plans of angels and demons, Sam and Dean try to get themselves back on track with a simple hunt. However, for the Winchester brothers, there is no such thing as simple, and the brothers soon learn with painful clarity that they will never escape what is in store for them and maybe, this time, they don't want to.

PART ONE

The diner was noisy.

A pair of truckers were sitting at the counter, one snarfing up a hamburger while the other told jokes that he laughed at with his own raucous laughter. A trio of young women were arguing about the best route to get to Reno, and a man in a business suit slurped his coffee while nursing a runny nose.

The wait staff was slow and inefficient, marking the floor with muted squeaks between snaps of gum. Somewhere in the kitchen, there was the constant barrage of orders, which not even the constant clink of silverware on plates could entirely cover.

Life. Just going on and on, like nothing was different. Like everything was _normal_.

That thought almost made Sam want to laugh. For all his pining, it turned out he didn't even know what that meant. Not then, and especially not now.

He sighed, bringing his attention back to his own booth. He had a plate of food in front of him--some kind of chicken sandwich, but it was overcooked and the lettuce was soggy.

Sam let his gaze flicker across the table, where Dean was shoveling an onion ring into his mouth. His brother barely paused to swallow before he picked up his chili dog again and stuffed it in his mouth, tearing off a sizable hunk.

Sam made a face.

How Dean could do that, was beyond him. And it wasn't just the food. It was the fact that Dean could sit there and eat lunch with pleasant alacrity, like everything was fine, like everything was, well, _normal_.

Sam almost choked on his own incredulity.

_Nothing _was normal. Not Sam, not Dean, not their dad--not even the world. Their Dad was part demon, Sam had been raised from the dead, Dean could hear angels, and the apocalypse was coming--

The entire world was off its axis. There was a war coming, _the _war, and the Winchester brothers were smack dab in the middle of it.

Really, it was old news by now. Nothing more than they hadn't known for weeks already. But, sitting there, in that diner, watching the world go meandering by, Sam just couldn't get it out of his head.

The Trickster's message was still there, after all. Lingering and undeniable, telling them in no unquestionable terms that it was time for them to play their part in all of this. They were merely actors in a play that the universe had penned a long time ago.

But what part were they playing, anyway? Everyone had something they wanted from the Winchester brothers but none of them seemed overly keen on letting them in on it. If growing up Winchester had taught Sam anything, it was that he wasn't very good at taking orders on faith alone.

How did everything fit together? How did Bobby's interpretation of Revelation fit with their father's reappearance as a demon? What did Dean's special angel powers really do? Could they really trust the angels? And how did Sam's resurrection fit with all of this? What did Azazel want? What did the angels want? What did the Trickster really want?

And why did _everyone _seem to want _them_?

"Dude," Dean's voice cut into his thought. "Aren't you even going to eat?"

Shaken from his reverie, Sam focused on his brother again. "What?"

Dean nodded toward Sam's mostly untouched plate of food. "Aren't you going to eat?" his brother repeated.

Sam eyed his food again, his stomach roiling in disgust. It looked even more unappetizing than it had before. He shook his head a little. "I'm not hungry."

His brother rolled his eyes, sighing a little. "Yeah. Right," he muttered.

"I'm not," Sam protested, and it was true. He didn't feel hungry at all. He didn't even know how to think of food when life was like this.

Dean scoffed. "The food isn't even that bad," he insisted. "I know you like to be a princess most of the time, but this is ridiculous. Even for you."

Sam couldn't help but scowl. "I'm not a princess."

Dean gave a small laugh, eyebrows raised. "Dude, you do remember that summer when we were kids when you wouldn't eat anything but grilled cheese, right?" He continued. "I thought for sure Dad was going to tie you down and force feed you some fruit after you got constipated for the third week in a row."

The memory wasn't as much of an exaggeration as Sam wished it was. His scowl deepened, and he slunk back in his seat, sulkily. "Yeah, man, thanks for bringing that up."

Dean shrugged, taking another large bite. "That's what big brothers are for," he said through a mouth full of food. He took a noisy drink from his glass of soda. "So, what do you think? You need me to order you a grilled cheese? I saw one on the kids' menu."

At that, Sam did roll his eyes.

Dean chuckled a little. "Seriously, Sammy," he said. "You've got to eat. Hunger strikes really aren't so effective."

"Why?"

"Because if you get weak enough, I'll knock your ass out and stuff a candy bar down your throat."

Sam shook his head. "No, I mean, what's the point? Of this? Of going on like nothing is different? Eating in diners, chasing hunts?"

Dean paused, his humor fading. He took another drink before meeting Sam's gaze with certainty. "Because that's what we do."

It was the cliched answer, the kind of line he'd been given all his life when he asked hard questions. He hadn't accepted it then, and he sure as hell wasn't going to accept it now. "What is?"

Dean sighed, and for the first time since they'd gotten away from the Trickster, Sam saw his brother's facade falter. Behind it, Sam could see exhaustion and resignation on his face. "Hunting, Sammy," Dean said plainly. "We have to keep fighting the good fight."

There was something genuine about the way Dean said it, but it wasn't enough. Not with Heaven and Hell pulling them in all directions. "Why? Because the Trickster told us to?"

Dean face puckered. "No," he said, his voice sharp. "I'm not doing anything for that son of a bitch."

"Then what?" Sam pressed. "The angels?"

His brother looked a little uncertain at that. Dean had told him most of what had happened during his encounter with Bob Marvin, but Sam had a feeling that the description didn't do it justice. "I don't know," Dean said, softly now. He shook his head, as if to convince himself. "What else are we supposed to do? Roll over and quit? Let the damn demon win?"

Sam had to consider that. As appealing as walking away was sometimes, he couldn't deny how hard it was. It had been hard enough when he was a teenager, and now the stakes were so much higher now. Too high. "We just...don't seem to be helping anything," Sam said finally. "I mean, the more we get involved, the more messed up this whole thing gets. If I had just stayed dead--"

Dean's face went rigid, and his eyes sparked with a furious grief. "I wouldn't finish that sentence," he said tightly, daring Sam to contradict him.

Sam swallowed the thought back. He'd seen what Cold Oak had done to his brother. He nodded. "Okay, I'm sorry," he said. "I just--sometimes, I don't know if we can do this."

"Of course we can," Dean said.

The way Dean could talk, the certainty he could put in his inflection--Sam wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it with every ounce of his being. But it was harder than it used to be. Harder than it should have been.

Licking his lips a little, he didn't have the heart to disagree. But he couldn't believe it yet. "And how can you be sure?" he asked, tentative and hopeful.

Dean didn't even hesitate. "We're Winchesters," he said with confidence. "As long as we've got each other's backs, we can handle anything. Even this."

"You're sure?" Sam asked.

Dean just rolled his eyes in an over dramatic show of annoyance. "Dude, ask me again, and I'm going to get offended."

There was something in that--something in Dean's cocky assurance that still hit Sam where it counted. As a big brother, Dean was almost unfaltering, and this was no exception.

Sam's doubts, though many, could assent to this much. Together, maybe they _could _handle everything. The times when things really fell apart, the times that hurt the most, were always when they were separated. When their father sent Sam away in the hospital back in Missouri. When Azazel kidnapped Sam to Cold Oak. When Sam had been _dead_.

Yet, they were together now. Somehow, Dean's right about that, it _was _enough. They'd always come out on top when unified, even when the odds were almost insurmountable.

Not to mention the fact that the game was still changing. While the demons were ramping it up a notch and their father was a wild card they didn't want to predict at this point, there were _angels_ in on it now. No matter what issues Sam had with them at the moment, no matter what doubts they caused him to have about himself, he couldn't deny that having a little divine intervention was somehow heartening--something to hold onto.

Which was what they needed--now, more than ever.

Everything had been building. Ever since the fire took Jessica at Stanford, the events had been cumulating, slowly ebbing toward some kind of climax, a tipping point that Sam couldn't fathom--didn't _want _to fathom. After Jessica's death, he had been certain he'd been through the worst, but every time, the bottom fell out and things just got _worse_. Azazel possessing their father. Dean almost dying in the cabin. A semi smashing the Impala. Finding his father dead.

But it didn't end there. It _never _ended. Not with their father's last secret, the growing mystery of Sam's past with Azazel. The other psychic children. Cold Oak.

_Dying_.

Even now, with their black-eyed father and mysterious angels who talked to Dean and were repulsed by Sam--how much more could they take? How much tragedy and heartache could one family actually bear? How many failures, how many twisted plans could they circumvent? Between Azazel and the Trickster, the angels and their father, Sam sometimes felt like they were nothing more than wayward buoys in a raging and unyielding storm.

Dean interrupted his thoughts. "By the way," he said, swallowing down the last of his burger. "I found us a hunt."

It shouldn't have been a surprise, because it all seemed pretty obvious now. Dean's pep talk was not merely for Sam's benefit. Sure, that was part of the reason. But the other part? The other _large _part?

Was that Dean had a hunt in mind and he needed Sam focused if they were going to go after whatever it was.

Really, that was more reassuring than anything else. That in the midst of all of _this_, they could still find something to hunt, take care of it, and move on. Maybe that kind of hunt wasn't so pointless after all.

Sam laughed a little. "Yeah?" he said. "What is it?"

Dean settled back on his seat, a smug expression on his face. "You'll never guess."

"Yeah," Sam said. "That's why I asked."

Dean's chest seemed to swell. "A duppy."

Sam paused. "A what?"

Dean's grin grew to epic proportions. "A duppy."

"You mean a Caribbean ghost?"

Dean's face fell. "Dude, how did you know that?"

It took a great deal of willpower for Sam not to roll his eyes. "I'm a hunter."

"So, I'm a hunter and I've never heard of it before."

"So how did you know what this one was?"

Dean's defenses flared, and he hunkered forward, shoulders hunched. "I can research."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "But we've been driving for two days straight. When did you have the time to look up duppies?"

Dean's smile crept back on his face surreptitiously. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "I heard about it from Karl Barnes."

Sam's mind worked to make the connection. "Wasn't he an old buddy of Caleb's?"

"Yeah," Dean said, taking a drink. "Pretty random. We'd done a hunt together while you were in college, but we haven't crossed paths since then. But last night I got this phone call from some unknown number and he had this tip for me."

"A tip?"

"Apparently he'd heard we were in the area."

Sam frowned a little. "How would anyone know we're in the area?"

Dean gave a shrug. "Bobby probably let it slip," he said. "That old man's been watching us like a hawk these days."

There was no denying that. Bobby had been there for them through some hard times in the last few years, and the worse things got, the more of a mother hen the wizened hunter proved to be. "You think he's keeping tabs on us?"

"Wouldn't put it past him," Dean replied nonchalantly.

"So did Karl tell you how to get rid of a duppy?"

"A ghost is a ghost," Dean said. "Caribbean, American, or Russian. A simple salt and burn."

"Is the duppy a human manifestation or an animal?"

Dean sat back, looking equally impressed and appalled. "You really know your crap, don't you, Sammy?" He shook his head. "We need to get you some more porn."

Sam just stared at him, mouth set firmly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Animal," he said. "Apparently it's a pissed off alligator, haunting a warehouse in Council, Georgia."

"Do we know what set it off?"

"You really want to know the story of an _alligator_ before we go and get rid of it?"

When Dean said it like that, he did have a point. "What kind of trouble is it causing?"

"At first it was just sightings," Dean said. Then he pulled out the newspaper, which was sitting abandoned at the far end of the table. He flipped a page, folding it before laying it in front of Sam. "Then we started getting a body count."

Sam skimmed the article. "Three attacks in two weeks," he said. "How do we know it's not a real alligator?"

"Because how many alligators do you know that massacre people in a warehouse?"

"It could happen."

"With no trace of an animal _anywhere_."

Sam cringed. "You sure it's not the Trickster?"

Dean's face was set tightly. "That son of a bitch won't be coming anywhere near us, not as long as we're on track."

Sam sighed, knowing his brother was probably right. The Trickster liked to screw with them, but two sightings so close together was not likely. "Okay," he said. "So how do we find our bones?"

"I figure, this thing a gator. It can't be very smart. So it's probably haunting the exact place where it died. I mean, a warehouse? If it wandered up that far, it probably got cut off from its food and water and croaked."

"The warehouse," Sam said, following his brother's line of thought. He looked again at the article. "You know, the lore on these things is that they're spirits that escape an improperly secured grave site. If it's still a new duppy, then it couldn't have gone far."

Dean snickered across from him.

Sam scowled. "What?"

"You said duppy."

He shook his head, very much not amused by his brother persistent lack of maturity. "That's what it is."

Dean chortled again. "Duppy."

"Are you done now?"

"Duppy."

Sam pursed his lips. "I'm going to go pay the check."

"Okay, okay," Dean relented. "It's just...this is what we need, Sammy."

"You acting like a twelve year old?"

"No, a simple hunt. Something easy, in and out. Get us back on our game."

For all of Dean's juvenile behavior, he was right about that. Sam nodded resolutely. "Yeah," he agreed. "I know it."

Dean reached for his coat, sliding toward the edge of his seat. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's do this."

Sam followed suit, feeling somewhat buoyant. It had been awhile since they'd done something easy. Since they'd stuck to the family business.

Though there were many things Sam wasn't sure about, there was one thing he could never doubt. The Winchester brothers were together and stronger than ever. Angels, demons, duppies--_here we come._

-o-

Duppies. No matter how many times he thought the word, it was still as funny as the first time.

This hunt was so awesome.

Between the alligator spirits and the bar connected to their motel, Dean wasn't sure how it could possibly get better. Especially since it was going so damn well.

It was the textbook definition of the perfect case. They'd found the joint, cased it out, found the bones within five minutes, and had the thing salted before the thing even had a chance to rear its head. One strike of the match, and _poof_. Their scaly friend was gone.

The simple victory was one of the best natural highs Dean had ever known. Sometimes, in all of the mess of angels and demons, Dean forgot that he actually _liked _to hunt. Saving people, hunting things: the family business. It had always been everything he wanted, and it always would be.

The fact that Sam was there with him was just all the more awesome. And Sam was in good form, to the point and focused. This was good for them. Back to the basics. With all the crap they'd been through lately, it felt good to fight the battles they actually had a chance at _winning_.

That was what they needed. That was why Dean had jumped at this case. No matter how simple or unimportant it seemed, it was an important hunt for them. The Trickster had screwed with their heads at the wrong time, and Dean knew himself well enough to know that when things got too hard to deal with, it was time to kill something ugly and evil.

More than that, he knew Sam well enough to know that when the kid was about to fly off the rails with the stress of it all, he needed order and structure, something to check off his cosmically imbalanced to do list.

Yet, with the entire hunt over in less than five minutes, Dean had to stop and wonder: was it really that easy?

Sam stood next to him, watching the smoldering remains of the forgotten alligator. "That's it?"

Dean gave the warehouse a look. It was empty, and he'd seen the duppy's spirit vanish with a screech. "Yeah," he said. "You know the lore better than I do. Salt and burn, and our friend duppy is no more."

Sam fell silent for a moment. "I know," he said. "It just...seemed, I don't know. Too easy?"

Part of Dean wanted to agree. He was too well trained as a hunter not to be suspicious of something so wonderfully simple. But what could they have missed? They'd found the bones. They'd salted the bones. They'd torched the bones. They had watched the thing appear and disappear with the painful angst of a tortured spirit. There just wasn't anything more than that. Doubts aside, sometimes they had to get lucky. "Are you going to complain after all of this that it was _too easy_? Really?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess not."

Dean snorted. "Smart choice there, genius," he said, shoving Sam a little. "So what do you say we celebrate our dearly departed duppy with a few beers?"

Sam's forehead was still creased with concern, but he nodded. "I guess."

Dean grunted with over the top annoyance. "You guess?" he said, turning toward the door. "You need to make up your mind, Sammy. First, things are too much. Then, things aren't enough. If you're going to keep playing Goldilocks, I'm going to put you in a blonde wig."

Sam glared at him with familiar little brother gusto. "You're a jerk sometimes, you know that?"

"Better than a little girl," Dean joked.

There was a look of mild consternation on Sam's face, but it was in good humor. His younger brother shook his head. "You're--"

But the sentence was cut off abruptly, and before Dean could ask what was wrong, Sam was wrenched from his side, flying across the warehouse at an impossible speed.

Dean tensed, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He pulled the gun from his jeans, pointing it wildly, trying to find their attacker. "Sam!"

There was nothing. No crazed duppy, no snapping alligator jaws. Just an empty warehouse and his brother sprawled at the base of the far wall.

"Sam!" he called out again, fear taking hold in the pit of his stomach. He took a step toward his brother, intent on helping him, when an invisible force pulled at him as well.

Before he could blink, the air was rushing past his ears and he was flying. Whatever this was, it wasn't a duppy. It was something worse. Something much, much worse. Sam had been right, maybe this had been too easy, maybe it wasn't _just_ a duppy--

His mind flashed to his brother, prone on the floor, and his last thought was of Sam before everything went black.

-o-

The first thing Sam was aware of was that he was tied down.

It was a disconcerting feeling, needless to say, but one that he'd had before. With moderate frequency, in fact. That didn't make it any less unsettling, however. Sam supposed there were just some things in life he'd never get used to.

His second thought was that this wasn't quite the same as normal. He'd been bound in a variety of ways, especially over the course of the last two years. Tied to a metal post in a sewer with a rope around his neck. Hands bound in front of him while he watched a shifter wearing his brother's face taunt him. Roped against a beam while hunting Meg in Chicago. Tied to a chair by a handful of vegetarian vampires.

But this time was...different.

It took him a minute to put it all together. The cold feeling of shackles on his wrists, his ankles, biting into his exposed skin. His shoes were gone, but that wasn't the only thing that was gone. His shirt had gone missing somewhere along the line, and his back was pressed firmly against cold, flat stone.

All in all, he was wide open and vulnerable_. _He could finagle knots and he could pick handcuffs, but breaking _shackles_? Was a bit out of the realm of his experience.

He gave an involuntary shiver. From the cold, from his vulnerability, he wasn't sure. Both, probably, and more. It was enough to make him want to panic. After everything they'd been through recently, all the ups and downs, this was a turn he hadn't been expecting and that he didn't know what to do with.

It was the tipping point, all over again. Everything building and building, so uncontrollably that he had no choice but to be swept away in it, no matter where fate took him.

With a steadying breath, he heard Dean's voice in his head. _As long as we've got each other's backs, we can handle anything. Even this._

Even this.

But Sam didn't know what _this _was.

His mind reeled at that, trying to piece it together and remember where he was and what happened.

The memories of the hunt came back to him. Sam could remember Dean's simple pleasure in a job well done. His brother had wanted to get a drink to celebrate--

Dean.

The thought of his brother brought Sam back to full awareness. If Sam was trussed up and vulnerable, that meant Dean was probably not doing so well himself. For as unsettling as Sam found his own situation, the idea of his brother being in a similar position was simply unbearable.

He startled awake, flinching in his bonds, and quickly finding that he couldn't get far. The cold was sharper now, and the prickling of his exposed skin suddenly seemed even more unnerving. Sam was a modest kind of guy, and he liked his layers of clothing. He would be uncomfortable shirtless anywhere outside a motel room. So shirtless and bound? Was high on his list of _really crappy things_.

At least he still had his jeans, for what solace that was.

Which wasn't much, if Sam was honest. Awake now, he realized that it wasn't just stone he was on--it was an altar. He'd been in the hunt long enough to know that flat surface rock formations weren't all that common naturally, especially in rundown warehouses. More than that, altars were among some of the favorites for a variety of supernatural entities.

That also explained the shackles. If something had taken the time to erect an altar, then it had also taken the time to secure its victims properly.

But why here? Why the warehouse? Why hadn't they seen these during the hunt?

The thought of the hunt made Sam's head spin. It had been easy--too easy. In and out, piece of cake. Nothing went that well.

Except when the hunt was just the set up.

Sam shuddered against, swallowing hard against a growing lump in his throat.

The hunt had been a trap. It had been easy because it had been nothing more than a decoy to bring them here. For what, Sam didn't know. He didn't _want _to know.

First things first; he had to get back on track. Where was Dean?

Craning his neck as best he could, Sam tried to get a better view of the place to find his missing brother. It was dark and nondescript, illuminated by flickering candlelight. There was a single bare bulb from the ceiling, casting a pallid glow over the area.

They were still in the warehouse. Sam remembered the bare bulb from their hunt, and the drooping ductwork on the ceiling. But despite those vaguely familiar landmarks, he was beginning to realize that things were different, too. Straining, Sam could make out a sizable shape to his right that had not been there before. Gray and sturdy, Sam recognized it for what it was.

Another altar, complete with shackles and chains and _Dean_.

His brother's face was turned toward him, squinting in the dimness. "You with me yet, Sammy?"

It took a moment for his eyes to really focus, but soon his brother's form came into clearer view. While seeing that Dean was alive was a relief, the fact that his brother was also half-naked and shackled only added to Sam's growing panic.

Sam swallowed again, trying to ignore the fluttery feeling of butterflies in his stomach. "Yeah," he said, and his voice wavered a little. "Did you see what it was?"

Dean snorted a little. "Didn't see a damned thing," he said. He turned his eyes to the ceiling appraisingly. "But I know one thing. The duppy--"

"Was a trap," Sam finished for him.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, a twinge of somberness in his tone. "Figures, you know? A nice easy hunt. We get rid of the thing, go about our business. Simple for everyone involved. That's really not so much to ask for every now and then."

Sam held back a grimace. "Apparently it is," he said, pulling experimentally at his bonds.

Across the room, Dean scowled. "No, it's _not_," he said. "And don't start up with the woe-is-us crap again, okay? This is a _coincidence_."

That was almost funny to Sam. "Getting knocked out and shackled is one hell of a coincidence," he mused.

"Yeah, well, we've seen weirder," Dean groused.

Even with things as they were, Sam didn't have the heart to contradict him. Besides, they had bigger issues to worry about. "So what do you think it is?"

Dean yanked at his chains, bucking a little, and the clatter echoed off the ceiling. "Something with way too much time on its hands," he said. "I mean, altars? And shackles? Driven into _stone_?"

Sam sighed a little, chewing at his lower lip. "And how come we didn't see them before?" he asked.

"Beats me," Dean replied. "We scoured this place. It was clean."

"But not secured," Sam said.

"We didn't need it to be secure."

"So we could be dealing with anything," Sam said, thinking.

Dean huffed, his chains clinking again. "These altars are real," Dean gritted out while squirming fruitlessly. "I'm not thinking we're looking at something noncorporeal. Ghosts can do some crazy ass stuff, but altars?"

Sam nodded a little, twisting his wrists, looking for a weakness. "And these are too refined for some kind of cut-and-dry monster."

Dean jerked, falling back panting against his altar. "And they're too damn secure to be built by a human," he said. "Not in that little amount of time--we couldn't have been out that long."

Sam frowned. That didn't leave much. "You thinking maybe it's a demon?"

In disgust, Dean grunted, giving a loud pull on his chains again. "I guess that's kind of like _c_," he said.

Sam looked at him quizzically.

Dean turned his head back toward him, grinning. "The answer you're supposed to pick when you don't know something on a multiple choice test. C. It's the most common answer."

As dire as the situation was, Sam had to shake his head at his brother persistent ridiculousness even in the face of unknown dangers.

Dean did his best attempt at a shrug. "These days, for us," he said. "Seems like demons are popping up all over the place. Our good old supernatural fallback."

"Yeah, some fallback," Sam said, eyes scanning the room again. "If you haven't noticed, we're kind of screwed."

"We're not screwed," Dean said. Then he grinned again. "We're shackled."

"Dean, come on," Sam said, feeling a surge of familiar annoyance.

"What?" his brother asked innocently. "Shackled is better than screwed. Trust me."

Sam just shook his head, letting his gaze linger above him. "Yeah, and do you have a plan to get out of this one?"

"We have to meet the son of a bitch first."

Sam glanced back at his brother. "You think it's working with Dad?"

Dean's face hardened a bit. "We don't know what Dad's up to," he said. "And why would he chain us?"

"Why did he try to kill us last time?"

"It could be your old friend Azazel," Dean muttered.

Before Sam could respond, a new voice cut him off. It was as cold as the stone beneath him and as light as the dancing shadows of the candlelight, lilting with an uneven accent Sam didn't recognize.

"Interesting speculation, boys," it said, smooth and sickeningly sweet. It came from the dark, ringing across the room with an atemporal quality. "The rumor has it that the pair of you is quite special. I'm not sure why, though. So far, I must admit, you haven't quite lived up to the zealous expectation."

Sam struggled, moving his head as far as he can to get some kind of glimpse. Finally, he could see a figure loitering in the shadows, just beyond the hazy light. From what Sam could tell, the figure was tall, maybe a little taller than Dean, but skinnier than either one of them. It was standing, back to them, facing some kind of table.

"Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint," Dean said. "Maybe if you'd called first, we would be able to put on a better show."

There was a soft laugh. "At least you're twice as entertaining as they said," it countered. "So maybe not all is lost."

That piqued Sam's interest--the first palpable clue as to who this was and what it wanted. "They who?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "Who are you?"

The figure shook its head. "So many questions," it said, almost in amusement. Then it picked up a something off the table. At first, Sam couldn't tell what it was, but then Sam saw the glint of polished, gleaming metal, and recognized the blade.

The figure seemed to inspect the knife, continuing his leisurely conversation. "I hope you can answer questions as well as you can ask them."

"Depends on the questions," Dean mocked, his bravado strong. "I don't get personal until the second date."

It was reassuring in a way. Even shackled and vulnerable, his brother could pull out all the stops. Dean was an artful poker player sometimes, with falsities so ridiculous that they had to be respected.

The thought bolstered Sam, and he locked his jaw as the lean figure turned toward them.

The long face was twisted into a grin, which looked more than somewhat macabre in the uneven glow of the surrounding candles. There was a well-trimmed beard, and it donned a simple dress shirt, buttoned to the top.

But that wasn't what caught Sam's attention. No, it was the eyes. Even from a distance, Sam could see them clearly, gleaming with the sinister blackness of the demonic.

Its eyes lingered on Sam before flickering to Dean. "I do disagree," it said.

Glancing at his brother, Sam saw Dean stiffen, but he belied it well. "Well, you can disagree all you want," he said. "Just tell us what the hell you want."

The demon inclined its host's head. "It's not what the hell _you_ want," it said, with dry amusement. "It's that hell wants _you_. Isn't that right? Sam and Dean Winchester?"

At that, Sam went rigid with anxiety. This wasn't a random trap. This had been set specifically for them, and they had fallen for it. Now, they were nothing more than worms on a hook, with nowhere to go.

Dean, ever the big brother, remained obstinate. "How do you know our names? You been checking out Hell Quarterly?"

The figure did not respond to Dean's harsh humor. Instead it stepped forward, looking far too conversational. "I know everything about you," the demon told them simply. "I know your birthdays. Your favorite foods. I know how old you were when you went on your first hunt, Dean, and I know that Sam believed your father was a traveling salesman until he was eight." Then, it frowned. "I know everything except the one thing I really _need_ to know."

Sam's voice was gone, stuck painfully in his throat.

Even Dean sounded strained when he spoke. "Yeah, and how would you know anything about any of that?" It was as much of a challenge as it was an honest question.

Lifting the knife, the demon fingered it, letting it slide through his fingers with a supernatural dexterity. "Let's just say, I spent some...quality time with your father when he was down under."

It was Dean's turn to blanch, which did nothing for Sam's growing fear. He felt himself tremble, from the cold, from what this demon had to say. "You knew our father in Hell?" Sam asked, almost afraid to know.

The face lit up. "Knew him? Why, I was his mentor. John and I grew very close."

"You're a liar," Dean seethed, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw his brother straining against his bonds with a newfound intensity.

The smooth smile returned. With undeterred calm and confidence, the demon sauntered over to Dean. Sam tensed at the movement, his first instinct to protect his brother.

But he was helpless. He just had to lay there--and watch.

The demon got closer, standing easily in Dean's line of sight, his back toward Sam again. "He knew you'd never forgive him if he broke," it said. "For years, I tortured him on my table. Twisting my knives, deeper and deeper, carving up his skin and his insides until there was nothing but blood and guts. Anything to get him to give in. To get off the table and join me instead of continuing his pointless resistance. It was you, Dean, that made him stay strong as long as he did. He made it longer than most. You should be proud of that."

Though it was hard to see, Sam watched his brother writhe, muscles bunched with a pent-up tension as he thrashed against his bonds.

Then, the demon turned, smirking in Sam's directions. Sam's heart skipped a beat, and he fidgeted, wishing he had something he could do to protect himself, to shield himself.

"He always sort of figured you'd understand though," the demon continued.

Up close, Sam could see the host's face more clearly. There were crow's feet around the eyes and friendly wrinkles around his mouth. In his real life, this man might have been friendly. Benevolent. But the unnatural emptiness of his eyes made the expression sadistic.

"That was the solace he had in finally getting off the rack. He knew one son would always join him down there someday. Isn't that right, Sam?" It paused, wetting its lips as it leaned closer. "By the very _blood _that flows in your veins."

On the other side of the room, Sam didn't have to see his brother to know that he was going ballistic. Sam heard his brother's voice ground out a string of obscenities that are almost lost beneath the sound of metal on stone.

For his part, Sam just went numb.

The demon didn't stop, keeping his dark gaze keenly on Sam's face. "You feel it, don't you? You feel the darkness that's in you. Just _waiting_ for you to give in."

Sam tried to shake his head, but he was frozen.

"They _always _give in," the demon continued. "Maybe we should just speed things up."

The demon straightened, the knife flashing in the air as he raised it swift and easy above Sam's head.

Dean was still yelling, but Sam couldn't hear anything now--nothing beyond the pounding of his own, tainted heart.

The knife descended before Sam could blink, and for a second, Sam knew he was going to die.

The second passed, and Sam breathed, blinking in confusion, his eyes wet with tears.

The knife was next to him, standing erect, embedded in the chiseled stone of Sam's altar.

The demon laughed, stepping away.

"Sam?" Dean called. "Sammy, did that son of a bitch hurt you? Sam!"

Sam tried to find his voice, tried to find his courage, but the doubt was almost overwhelming now. It was worse than at the diner, it was worse than seeing their father. Almost worse than dying. Because, for the first time, he never saw it coming.

This time...

"Pardon me, boy, where are my manners?" the demon crooned. "I don't believe I formally introduced myself. My name is Alastair."

"Yeah, well, Al, I'm going to give you one chance," Dean said. "Let us go and I won't rip your black smoke out of that body and stuff it back to Hell, okay?"

Alastair gave Dean an appraising look. "Such defiance," it mused. "Just the way I like it. Makes it all the more entertaining to break you."

"Why?" Sam asked, almost surprised to hear his own voice. Because this was a demon--it didn't need a reason. They craved death and destruction, chaos and control. Yet, Sam knew it was more than that. There were no such things as coincidences. Not in life, not in death. Not in torture.

Alastair looked at him, something akin to surprise on the host's own benign features. "Why?" it repeated, almost as if it couldn't believe what Sam had said.

Sam fought the dryness in his throat, keeping the growing fear at bay. "Why us?"

The demon looked pleased at that, his head cocked ever so slightly, entertaining Sam's inquiry. "There are many reasons, of course," Alastair said easily.

Limber fingers plucked a new knife from his belt, twirling it and catching it by the hilt before tapping the blade thoughtfully against his chin. "John was my student, you see. More than a student, really. My _best _pupil. My _star_. All my years in Hell--and trust me, they were _long_--I had yet to find a worthy protege. But John Winchester." The demon sighed, in something like wistful fondness. "He would be the one to stand by my side for the centuries. Together, we could have been unstoppable. The Demonic Duo."

Sam kept his eyes on Alastair, too aware of his brother's muffled attempts to find a weakness in his bindings. Monologuing was a demonic weakness, one that Sam hadn't intended to exploit, but might as well utilize now that he had the chance. "Funny, my dad's always been more of a solo flyer. His way or the highway."

Alastair lifted a single brow quizzically. "Allies may be convenient on Earth. They are _vital_ in Hell. I saved John's life."

Sam smiled grimly, willing himself not to look at his brother and give away the game. "You tortured him."

"I broke him of his foolish human pride." Alastair shot back. "He didn't need it. It would only hurt him--hinder him. I made him what he is. Strong and beautiful. And then, after everything, John went and joined _him_. That Yellow Eyed idiot."

The demon's tone was mocking and resentful. Demons certainly weren't above such petty emotions, but there was something more to this. Something Sam hadn't counted on. "You mean Azazel?"

At the name, Alastair sneered. "John was meant for better things than that. He is the one, you know. The one who started all of this. This beautiful chaos."

"Started all of what?" Sam pushed, as much to give his brother time to escape as to know the answer.

The black eyes danced, a pleased smile on the face. "The Apocalypse, of course," he said. "Surely you know the prophecy. As well-read as you are. Even Dean, who is rustling pointlessly in his chains, should know it."

Across the room, Dean stilled.

Alastair turned to him with a wicked grin. "You'd be more effective with a Latin chant than going after the chains," it advised. "Demons have their vulnerabilities. Cast iron, might stop some of the lesser of us. Might even give me a good tickle. But a bullet to chest? Would be only somewhat bothersome."

Dean cursed, yanking at his chains hard, rattling them loudly.

The demon seemed unfazed. "There are seals, yes? You know of them?"

"Revelation 6:8," Sam said. "We already saw the first one."

"Yes, that one was quite nice," Alastair agreed. "But it was hardly the first one. No, the first one started before, on a torture rack in Hell."

Sam's heart skipped another beat, his throat constricting further. Even his brother was silent.

"You really don't know this?" Alastair asked. He shook his head. "Your human texts are more flawed than I believed. That a righteous man shall break in Hell and set the whole thing in motion."

"A righteous man?" Sam questioned.

"I know, who would have thought your daddy as such a thing?" the demon mused. "But it was the nature of his death. A soul for a soul. The moment John sacrificed his very essence to bring Dean here back, he became the epitome of selflessness. Our malleable, righteous sacrifice. I had to work for _years _on him to get him to break."

"Years?" Dean said. "He was only there--"

"Time works differently in Hell, silly boy," Alastair chided. "Which is why I expected earthly millennia to pass before the next seals fell. The natural order is often very slow. Methodical. But Azazel--your yellow-eyed friend--is trying to pervert it. Manipulate it for his own personal gain. We're not supposed to _make_ it happen. We're supposed to _let_ it happen. But there he is, defying cosmic order and making the entire thing one sloppy mess."

There was something true about that--the means and ends, an age-old human debate. Sam had always thought of it as an _us _or _them _proposition. Evil was evil was evil, and the proof was always in the actions. While some creatures might have had the will to deny their base desires, some of them couldn't fight their inevitable calling. Sam had always been able to see the shades of gray, but he clearly knew the black and white of it all, too. These layers of evil, these _factions_--they were things Sam hadn't considered.

Things Sam wasn't sure he wanted to consider.

Dean grunted with laughter. "You're worried about the mess?"

Alastair's borrowed eyes narrowed. "My chaos is rooted in order. My destruction is grounded in methods. Azazel is breaking all the rules, letting evil buck untamed in earth and hell."

"Oh, that's rich," Dean countered, with a distinct air of mocking, but Sam could tell, the entire conversation was just as unsettling for his brother as it was for him.

"Do explain," Alastair prompted, with genuine curiosity.

"Power," Dean said. "I get it now. Why you set us up. This is nothing more than a pissing match between you and Azazel. He got your student, and now you want to get back at him by screwing with his latest pet project."

Alastair's grin was as wide as the Chesire Cat. "Perhaps," it agreed. "Though not as many demons as you would think actually back your friend Azazel. John Winchester is one of the few. And I need you two to tell me why. Why him? Why you two? Why did he pick your family out of all the little families?"

Sam shook his head in protest. "We don't know anything," he said, and it was mostly the truth. Because what did they know? That Dean could talk to angels? That Sam couldn't because he'd been fed demon blood as a baby? That Azazel had pulled him from the dead?

These were things they _knew_, but they were useless facts without any context. Just a garbled mess of tired and twisted facts. No master plans; just the same Winchester tragedy.

"Time will tell," Alastair said, clearly not convinced. "And in the end, even if you don't know, you two do seem to be linked to his plans. He foiled my plans, and by taking the two of you, I may very well foil his. Revenge." He sighed, almost in contentment. "It is sweet, isn't it?"

Sam had heard demons make threats for the better part of his life. He knew of their overconfidence, the propensity to make bigger claims than they could back 'd been trapped by them before, he'd been taunted by them and hurt by them.

And they had never terrified him more than now.

The tipping point, he couldn't help but think. Only he was bound to fall into despair, him and Dean both, with nothing and no one to catch them.

Sam shuddered.

Moving forward again, Alastair pulled the knife out from beside Sam's head with his free hand, brandishing both in front of him with a grin. "Now," he said. "Who first?"


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

The demon's black eyes shifted toward Sam, and Sam felt his breathing pick up speed. He was scared; he had rarely been so scared in his life. But under the fear there was a thin thread of relief. Him. Alastair picked him, and not Dean. All in all, he couldn't be too unhappy about that.

He couldn't, but someone else could. As Alastair leaned toward Sam's altar, Sam could hear Dean explode from the other side of the room.

"You stupid, soulless, son of a bitch! You wouldn't know real evil if it came up and bit you in the pursqueeter! I was more impressed with the duppy! Hey! C'mon, asshole!"

It wasn't anything that Sam didn't expect. Dean was a good brother. He would do everything he could to stop this, but Sam knew that stopping it wasn't an option right now.

Alastair smirked, sharing a knowing look with Sam. They both knew Dean was shouting to attract Alastair's attention – trying to make him mad and pull him away from Sam. And though Sam was grateful for the sentiment, he was glad that it wasn't working. Maybe it was cowardly, and maybe it wasn't fair, but he would much rather hurt than have to listen to Dean being hurt.

Sam only realized that he'd made a mistake when Alastair's smirk deepened. Sam closed his eyes against the wave of despair. He'd let his relief show in his expression despite his fear, and Alastair caught it. A creature like him could hardly have missed it – and he definitely knew how to use it.

"Your brother has quite the potty-mouth, doesn't he?" their captor asked, leaning over Sam. He stroked a gentle hand down Sam's cheek. "I'll have fun with that when I get to –" Alastair stopped, frowning. Sam froze, hardly daring to breathe as the demon stared at him, looking almost angry. Alastair's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.

He leaned closer, too close. Sam's hands fisted uselessly in their bonds as the demon's face – his mouth – moved in, millimeters from the bare skin of Sam's neck.

"What the hell are you doing, you sick bastard? He doesn't swing that way."

The demon ignored Dean. He was much too focused on Sam, and Sam swallowed, tilting his head as far from that mouth as he could get – which was not far enough at all. He tried to slow his breathing, but couldn't. He was pulling air in fast, panicked bursts. Then Alastair sniffed, and Sam shuddered at the sensation of the demon _smelling_ him. He felt his skin actually crawl with revulsion as the monster ran his nose along the thin tissue near his artery.

The demon pulled back, his face twisted with disgust. "Well, well, well. You have been keeping some odoriferous company, Sam_my_."

Sam felt his stomach turn as the demon used his father's pronunciation of his name. "What –?" The half mutter was full of honest confusion. He smelled bad to a demon? What the hell…?

"Angels," Alastair sneered. "You _reek_ of them. It's coming out of your pores. It's not much different from the smell of an unwashed henhouse, really. That kind of stench is pervasive. It gets into _everything_. You must have been around one at some point. That is unexpected." Alastair looked thoughtful. "Which begs the question of where and when, and _why_ the feathered ilk seem to be so interested in you. You do seem to attract quite a lot of attention, little Sam_my_. So much ground to cover…so little time." Alastair sighed like a person planning a party, happily busy. "Well, we'll get to the answers. I promise. But if you have angels around, then there's something I need to take care of. Questions will just have to wait a bit, sadly."

Patting Sam on the shoulder, he turned to Dean's altar.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, trying to twist his head to watch as the demon as closed in on his helpless brother. Briefly, their eyes met; Dean trying hard to look confident, unaffected. But Sam could see the real terror underneath, like the slow churn of dark water under the ice. Sam felt his own blood turning to ice as well. The cold shards of it seemed to pierce his heart as Alastair moved between them, cutting off Sam's view.

The demon glanced back, tipping a wink at Sam, obviously aware of how he'd come between them. "Only be a minute here, kiddo. Then we can get back to business."

Helpless to look away, Sam watched as Alastair's shoulder moved – a carefully deliberate motion. Dean's voice exploded in a guttural curse.

Sam had braced himself, but there was no way to block it out completely. The sound of Dean's pain tore at him as much as Alastair's knife was tearing at Dean, and Sam shuddered with the ache of it.

Sam strained against his bonds, uselessly. "Hey! I thought it was me you were interested in, you bastard! C'mon!"

Alastair straightened, turning to look at Sam and smiling slightly. His knife dripped gore. Behind him, Sam could see Dean, looking tense and pale, with sweat gathering across his face. His eyes were closed. His side was open and bleeding.

"Don't be so impatient, little pet," Alastair almost hummed to Sam in his strange accent. "I'll get to you. Anticipation is half the fun." Then the demon's hand dropped and pushed viciously against the long gash he'd created in Dean's side. Dean screamed in earnest this time, arching away from the pain. Their captor just closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring a fine wine.

"Alastair, please! Please! Just stop! Please!" The last repeated word came out more as a demand then a request. "Don't hurt him anymore!"

Alastair only grinned wider. "I'm sorry, pet. But I need something from him, and this is the easiest way to get it."

"He doesn't know anything!" Sam cried. Sam felt the shackle slide strangely against his skin as flesh tore and blood started to flow, but the information was news from another country.

"You're giving him what he wants, Sam," Dean said, his voice trying to be dry, even bored…but shaking slightly. And he was right; Sam knew it. He was giving Alastair pain, _his_ pain. Didn't mean he could stop.

"He's right, you know," Alastair said, and the conversational tone was scarier to Sam than all of the vague threats. The demon literally felt nothing for his victims. Nothing. Except maybe amusement. "And I do want your pain, my dear. But right now, I'm after something a little more tangible."

He pulled his hand away from Dean's side, and Sam's stomach turned. The demon's hand was dripping blood: Dean's blood.

Alastair stood, walking calmly over to the wall as Dean's blood slithered though his fingers. Sam craned his head, watching as the demon used his bloody hand to paint a symbol. The blood dripped down the wall in thin ribbons, but that didn't seem to matter to Alastair. Sam figured that it was more the arrangement of the lines – and the substance they were inked in – that mattered, rather than the precision of the drawing.

It was a drawing Sam couldn't place. Obviously it was some sort of sigil, and Sam searched his memory, but he couldn't figure out what the hell it was for.

Automatically, Sam's eyes flicked back to Dean.

Dean's eyes were closed, though; his face was pale and he was trembling just a bit. Sam's jaw worked as Dean seemed to feel him watching, his eyes slowly opening. Sam tried to convey his concern with a look, silently asking if he was okay. Dean only attempted to shrug it off, forcing an expression of nonchalance; letting Sam know that he was fine, that it wasn't that bad. But his mouth was so tight from the pain that it twitched, and his eyes slid closed again too quickly for Sam's liking.

Frustrated, Sam turned his attention back to the demon in time to see him finish his graffiti. Alastair regarded the lines and swirls for a second, then slammed his bloody hand into the center of the sigil. Sam watched, amazed and appalled, as the demon jerked like he'd been tasered. The demon's head dropped as if it was painful, his shoulders hunched, tensed – but when he looked back over his shoulder at them, he was breathing hard and smiling in pleasure.

"Ow," he murmured almost contentedly. "Been a long time since I felt anything quite that…_wonderfully_ nasty."

Sam shuddered, feeling his heart speed and a cold twist of fear run down his back. Oh god, this was not just an upper-level demon with vengeance on his mind – this was a demon who got off on pain, a sadist in the truest sense of the word. This was a demon that was crazier than a shit-house rat.

Sam felt a rush of true terror. He and Dean were _so_ screwed.

Alastair smiled and the dark insanity of it made Sam's blood run cold. "Too bad we only get to do this three more times."

Panicked, Sam glanced at Dean, but his brother was staring up at the ceiling. Sam could feel the blood beginning to trickle from the skin on his writs as he unconsciously struggled against the metal shackles. But there was no way to free himself; no way to get to Dean and to help him…Sam could only close his eyes, his hands fisting, as he listened to Dean reluctantly letting out a hoarse scream.

Sam watched as Alastair went through the whole process again and again , sketching the sigil on the next two walls, each time cutting Dean a little deeper, draining him of more of his blood. Dean finally flinched as Alastair started toward him a fourth time. Sam saw it and felt his heart cramp in his chest.

"Sorry, buddy," Dean said, panting just a bit. Sam could see him staring at the empty ceiling so far above them, he could hear the way Dean was trying to keep his voice indifferent, and knew how much of a lie it was from the way his brother's fists clenched. "I gave at the office. And I'm low a quart as it is."

Alastair chuckled at this. "That's my boy. Show me how not afraid you are." He licked his lips, his tongue moving in a reptilian kind of flicker. "It's so much sweeter when you try to swallow the fear." The demon smiled down at Dean almost tenderly…then punched him in the side, opening the gash again, milking it, encouraging the blood to flow.

Sam shuddered at the choked noise Dean made as Alastair's fist hit home. "Me! God damn it, use me! You haven't bled me at all!"

Alastair hissed a laugh, leaning in to stage whisper to Dean: "Has your brother always been so jealous of your attention? I just bet he has." He pulled his freshly bloodied hand free of Dean's wound. "You'll get your turn, Samuel. Just wait. Patience is a virtue after all. Besides, I don't think using your blood will be quite as effective in banishing the angelic host, now would it."

"You're banishing the angels?" Dean asked, eyes wide, and Sam could hear the vague slur of blood loss beginning to creep through the words. "There are wards against _angels_?" For the first time, Sam could see real fear in him, and he realized that some part of Dean had been counting on the angels to swoop in. But Sam knew better, even as he watched Alastair paint the last sigil on the wall. They had no backup coming. No one was going to be swooping in to rescue them. They were on their own.

And Sam swallowed against the bile that wanted to come up as the realization of just how vulnerable and alone they really were hit him like a kick in the stomach.

"'There are more things in heaven and earth…than are dreamt of in your philosophy'." the demon quoted lazily. "There are ways to get rid of everything, young Dean. Even things that claim to be above all that. _Especially_ things that claim to be above all that. You should always remember that." Alastair smirked, then smacked his filthy hand in the center of the last sigil, leaving an imprint of Dean's blood and his own pleasure-filled pain.

Alastair shuddered as he sealed the last sigil. A bright flash echoed through the room as the ward went up – and Dean jerked like he'd just touched the third rail as the light washed over him.

Alastair frowned at Dean's reaction, his expression considering. "You felt that. You shouldn't have. Not unless you are tied to the angels," the demon said. The quiet intensity of his tone, the way he was staring at Dean now – not just amused but _interested_, like a cat with a mouse – scared the crap out of Sam.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean sneered weakly. "I'm just a little angel." He didn't bother to open his eyes.

The demon wasn't pleased. "Yet another little mystery to solve. But that's all right. We should have enough time to work in private now. To get to the bottom of this…enigma you two represent." The word was derisive. He sounded almost offended.

"You don't like not knowing things, do you asshole?" Dean jeered, his eyes snapping open and filling with anger. "Well, too friggin' bad, because we won't tell you _squat_!"

"Good," Alastair encouraged. "The longer you hold out, the longer I keep you alive. And the longer I have to play. Win-win for me, kiddo."

"What? No: 'if you tell me what I want to know, I'll let you go' spiel?" The words were strong enough, but Dean's voice shook.

Sam didn't know if Dean had ever sounded quite this frightened. And the sound of it shook his own courage. Dean was his hero, his big brother, the one who knew everything and fought monsters and protected him. And even if Sam was grown now and he _knew_ better, there was still a little kid somewhere in the back of his head that trembled at the sound of Dean's fear. If Dean was scared, they were in big trouble.

"Sorry," Alastair said, sounding anything but. "That's not how it goes this time. It's not tell-and-live; it's _tell_," Alastair lifted his knife, the long, serrated edge of it dripping gore, "…then die."

"That isn't exactly motivation to talk," Dean snapped back, glaring at the blade.

"That's what the knives are for," Alastair responded dryly. Then he carefully ran his fingers down the blade, wiping it clean of Dean's blood. "But first things first."

Alastair turned to Sam, and Sam's world narrowed to that sly face and knowing eyes. He was aware of Dean's protests somewhere, but he felt frozen by Alastair's gaze, like he was a mouse getting slowly constricted by a snake.

The demon moved slowly, deliberately letting both brothers see exactly what he was doing, making them anticipate. He whistled as he brandished the knife, humming a low satisfied sound that was as bad as the pain, as he finally cut, a long, shallow slice across his torso. Sam gasped at the burn of it, then carefully clamped down on even that reaction. He didn't want to make a sound if he could help it. He knew what hearing Dean scream had done to him, and he wanted to spare his brother that if he could.

Across the room, Sam could hear Dean's chains rattle as he struggled. Dean had bled more, been hurt more, but even so, Sam knew that his pain had to be killing his brother. He knew it from experience. "What are you doing?" Dean shouted. "Hey! Knock it off!"

Alastair ignored him. Sam didn't look over – he didn't want Dean to have to see any of this, and if he met Dean's eyes there would be no way to hide it.

Alastair smiled down at Sam, as if reading his thoughts. He stroked the inflamed skin around the cut in Sam's chest. "Little brother is fine, Dean," he called back, smirking. "You two are just _too_ precious." Then Alastair's stoking finger dug inward without stopping, so that he was running his finger inside the cut.

Pain flared up from his chest like wildfire, burning out his sight, clouding his senses. Sam gasped at the burning, invasive ache of it. Automatically he tried to get his hands up, to get the monster off him, and felt the raw skin on his wrists tear fully as the cuffs dug in. But even as he struggled, his throat locked, and he never made a sound.

Dean did. He was cursing and shouting and the only thing that registered with Sam was an achingly familiar: "If you hurt my brother, I _will_ kill you. I swear, I will _kill_ you."

Alastair just smiled, and Sam could see the satisfaction in the expression. "Too late, Deano." Alastair held up his bloody hand so that Dean could see. "Hurting is what I do." And then he licked it.

Sam jerked, appalled, as Alastair licked gore on his finger and then, locking eyes with Sam, sucked the digit clean, like a gourmet sampling a new sauce. He removed the finger from his mouth slowly, lingering over the flavor. "Well, you smell like meat, little monkey... but you taste like us. Interesting."

"Screw you!" Dean shouted defiantly. "Sam's nothing like you. Nothing!"

"Aw, how sweet. The brotherly love continues." Alastair smiled again, and Sam couldn't tear his eyes away. "But we both know better, don't we, Samuel?"

The voice was rotten honey, decaying molasses. A false sweetness that covered a poisonous truth. One Sam had been refusing to swallow for too long now.

"'Blood will out,'" Alastair whispered. "Now, sing for your brother." He plied the knife again. Sam arched against the pain, but managed to keep from making a sound.

Dean reacted anyway. "Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

Alastair tsked, sighing. "Now, you don't even know my mother. And I will stop. All you have to do is admit what you are, stubborn Samuel."

"Go to hell," Sam snapped through clenched teeth.

"I will, as soon as I'm done with you two. _With_ my information. It's either on your tongues or in your brains…and I don't care which I have to rip out to get it. Both ways are amusing."

The blade went in. Sam panted, shaking, but remained silent. The demon twisted the knife, slowly turning it.

The pain was like a balloon; it nestled next to his ribs and then it filled and filled until it burst, throwing what felt like shards of glass through him. Despite his resolve to stay strong, despite his desire to save Dean the knowledge of his suffering…the pain built until it was choking him and he had to either let it out or suffocate.

He screamed.

Alastair leaned back, as if satisfied by the noise. "Good boy. That's a very good boy." He stroked Sam's hair. "We're making progress. Now that you're vocal, what say we deal with a few little questions?"

"Screw you."

"Now, now, now. Outbursts like that could have people thinking you're some kind of monster. Oh, wait."

Alastair smiled like the ghost of the alligator they had just killed. Somewhere a world away, Dean cursed again.

"You listen to me, Sammy. You aren't a monster. You aren't like this douchebag. You aren't!"

Alastair shook his head. "Dean isn't real quick on the uptake, is he?"

Sam just closed his eyes. There was no reason to keep them open. He knew what happened next.

Alastair seemed to pick up on Sam's unwillingness to participate in his verbal games. His tone turning businesslike, his mouth far too close to Sam's ear, the demon spoke. "Now, why did Azazel pick you, little pet?"

He paused, but Sam refused to speak.

"What makes you so special?"

Sam's side burned. The knife was still lodged there. He could feel the wet slip of blood across his bare skin.

Alastair sighed wearily. "What kinds of abilities do you possess?"

Sam opened his eyes to stare at the beams so far overhead. The shadows crisscrossed there, making a dark web. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since the sun broke those shadows apart, burnt them into nothingness. Too long, he decided. Way too long.

Hissing in agitation, Alastair twisted the knife again. Sam screamed, surprised by the sudden bite of the blade and gasping out words without thinking. "I don't know! I don't know!"

Dean cursed raggedly.

"Don't know," Alastair mimicked conversationally. "Now, why don't I believe you?"

"Because you're an amoralistic asshole who wouldn't know the truth if it came up and kicked you in the balls?" Dean suggested from across the room.

Alastair considered that with a small grin. "You know," he said to Sam, sounding friendly enough. "He could be right. Maybe I wouldn't know the truth if you did speak it. Maybe I should just open you up and see if I can find it that way."

The knife moved. And so did the pain, growing and stretching, filling him like a possessing spirit. It grabbed onto him, sank into him, and Sam was so consumed by it that he no longer had any idea whether he was screaming or not.

"Whoa! Okay? Just stop!" Dean shouted from his slab. "We don't freaking know! We've been trying to figure that out for almost two years now! We don't have a clue! I swear! So just stop!"

The demon dropped his head, like someone who had suffered an annoying interruption while painting a masterpiece. Sam gasped like a fish; the pain receding for a moment as Alastair slowly looked over his shoulder at Dean. The demon's eyes were unfriendly. "I'm trying to have a conversation," he growled at Dean. "Interrupting is a bad habit. Do I need to teach you manors?" He tsked his tongue. "John was such a neglectful father."

Even bleeding, his eyes blurred with tears, Sam still saw the flinch.

And so did Alastair.

Sam wanted to protest, wanted to call the demon back, but his throat wouldn't cooperate and he had precious little breath left. Instead, he watched in mute horror as a slow, twisted smile slithered across Alastair's borrowed face and he turned his attention back to Dean.

-o-

Dean hurt. The long slice across his chest and side burned, and his wrists and arms throbbed from fighting the restraints. His head…it ached, in a weird, ringing sort of way. Those sigils – he had felt the snap of each of imprint. Each time Alastair had slammed his hand down, sealing the symbol, Dean had felt the blow of it like a cage door shutting. And when the final door slammed…it had snapped through him, like it was cutting off one of his senses, leaving him feeling almost numbed. It was like he'd been getting information without knowing it from an invisible GPS, and now, with no new input, he was vaguely disorientated.

But none of it had hurt him like the sounds that Sam had been making. Having to listen to his brother in pain and being helpless to stop it, to help him, to save him…

That was a kind of hell he'd never wanted to feel again.

So no matter how badly his head was ringing, he felt a savage gladness when Alastair turned toward him. Because no mater how much pain was coming his way, it would still hurt less then hearing Sam struggle.

Alastair slithered into Dean's limited line of sight – and that's really what it seemed like to Dean: slithering – like he was a snake, a _serpent_, no matter the suit or the hands.

Dean watched as their captor went to the small table once again. He strained, twisting his head almost all the way back to watch as the demon picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves and collected a canister of some sort. Then Dean didn't have to strain anymore, because Alastair was back at his side and in his face, and Dean felt his heart trip as everything in him screamed at the evilness – the _vileness_ – of the creature leaning over him so possessively.

Dean swallowed, fighting the fear, trying to ignore Sam's sharp, "No. No. Alastair!" Vaguely, he realized how much worse that made it, hearing Sam protest, knowing he was watching and helpless. And he spared a second to mentally apologize to his brother for not keeping his mouth shut – and another to hope that Sam would.

Alastair sat the container and gloves down on the floor next to Dean's altar. Dean's eyes automatically flicked to it, but he couldn't make out what it was.

"See," the demon said conversationally. "The whole problem is that I think your daddy lied to me."

He put the knife to work again and the blade slid across Dean's chest, a long, shallow, swooping cut. Dean hissed, his body tensing – which only made the knife hurt more.

"Not your fault, I know," Alastair continued, his eyes following the trail of the knife as he opened Dean's chest. "But we are all left with the consequences of his actions. I questioned him, oh _yes_," the word was drawn out like a lover's whisper, sibilant and smooth. "I asked him so many questions, and he told me so many wonderful things. About you. About your brother. And I listened. I listened so closely…and I knew he was special, and your brother was special . But he said you were so…ordinary." The demon's knife slid along Dean's skin, driving home the lesson in pain and blood. Scoring him with both the words and the blade. "He said you were plain." Cut. "Normal." Slice. "Dull." Slash. "Boring." Cut. "_Useless_. Useless to him, useless to your brother, and useless to me. Meat for the wasting."

The knife went in and twisted, and Dean screamed, his mind blank except for a wide, red wake of pain. Slowly, the misery receded and Dean opened his eyes again, panting as Alastair, smiled serenely down at him. "Is –" Dean swallowed back something in his throat, not knowing or caring if it was bile or blood. He tried again. "Is there a question in there somewhere, or d-do you just like to hear yourself talk?"

The demon laughed, and Dean hated him a little more.

"Oh, there's a question," Alastair agreed. "But it's not 'how could your neglectful, uncaring, father who overlooked you your whole life not know what you were or that you have some sort of tie to those feathered freaks who think that they are so much better then us?' No. Why, the answer's _in_ the question with that one! John couldn't have cared less about what happened to you so long as Sammy was okay. So he never saw that special twinkle in your eyes." Alastair's grin faded, "At least, that's what you think. And Samuel," his voice picked up so that Sam could hear them. "He thinks that this mess is all of his making. That it's his fault that you never had the life you wanted, never had the home you wanted. And his fault that now you're getting carved up like a turkey on Thanksgiving. All his fault." Alastair leaned in close and whispered in Dean's ear. "You both give yourselves too much credit."

Dean shuddered at the demon's breath in his ear. He jerked his head away, and his raw, bloody chest howled at the motion. "Dude," Dean said, his voice hollow, his eyes squeezed shut. "Tick-Tacs. Get some. Seriously."

Alastair snorted. "You do amuse me. In more ways then the typical screaming-bleeding. But you two aren't typical, are you? You are somehow _exceptional_. But that still leaves _the_ question, the only one I care about. What in the name of Hell _are_ you two? I'm fairly sure John didn't know. At least he didn't when he died." Alastair looked smug. "He told me everything he knew from before he died. And I do mean _everything_."

Dean opened his eyes and he could see Sam struggling across the room. Sam looked so scared. As soon as their eyes met, Sam exploded. "If you already know all this, why do you need us? It's obvious you know more then we do! We can't tell you anything!" Dean could hear the edge of real anger under the fear.

"Ahh, Samuel. John told me all about _you_. At least, what little he knew and what little more he suspected. But in this, _Dean's_ uniqueness…John said nothing. So, either he lied," the demon's tone let it be known how likely that was. "Or he didn't know. Which means you _do_ have something to share with me." His inky black eyes flicked to Sam. "Both of you do."

"We've established that," Dean growled, his mouth working without his even thinking about it. He could feel the blood running down his sides, feel it pooling on the stone beneath him, warm and cooling; but he would do anything to keep Alastair on this side of the room. Anything. "So are you ever going to do anything about it? Or are you just playing with yourself?"

"Oh, I plan to," Alastair smirked and reached for the canister he had sat down earlier. The blue cardboard looked innocuous. It was almost comforting in its familiarity, in its meaning. But Dean felt himself shudder, eyes flaring at the pain he knew was coming.

Alastair shook the container of salt, obviously amused at the dry rustle. "I am limited in the amount of physical damage I can inflict as long as I want you alive. Things are so much easier in Hell. There, I can cut to the bone, suck out the marrow, and they just come back. Here though…cut too deep, or in the wrong way, and instant corpse."

"So sorry to ruin your fun," Dean snarked, but the effect was ruined by his shaking.

"Oh, it's no bother, really," Alastair assured him. "I may be limited on the amount of damage, but I can add as much pain as I want." He regarded the salt amusedly. "Most of my kind won't go near this stuff – purity and all that." He sat the cylinder down long enough to pull on the gloves. "But I love the irony. See, boys, salt doesn't hurt just demons. It can bite even the pure…when they're open to it."

"Alastair! Don't! _Don't_!" Sam begged.

But Dean could have told Sam that was useless.

Alastair poured a steady line of salt across the open cuts in Dean's chest. There was a moment when there was nothing, just the slight almost pleasant feel of the shifting grains landing on his raw, hypersensitive flesh… then his chest caught fire. Burning, etched in acid and smoke and pain, and oh god oh god, it hurt it hurt it HURT.

Dean shrieked.

"What is this connection you have to the angels?"

"I don't know! God!"

"He has left the building." Alastair's said flatly. His hand ran over the cuts, rubbing the salt in. "Why did Azazel pick your family?"

"I. Don't. Know! Please!"

"What can your brother do? What is his purpose?"

"I have no frigging clue!"

And suddenly, Alastair pulled in a sharp breath. His eyes narrowed to slits and he leaned in, smelling Dean. He had to hold Dean's shaking head still to accomplish it. He licked his cheek. Dean shuddered massively.

"We have a truth," Alastair observed. He sucked his tongue clean of Dean's pain. "Let's work on more, shall we?"

Dean screamed as the knife went in again.

-o-

Sam shivered as Dean yelled when the salt hit his chest.

His own pain had been bad enough. Hearing Dean's agony was too much…

He could feel it, the power, the surge and pull of it. Maybe it was the proximity of the demon. Maybe it was his own panic as he was forced to watch Dean struggle. Either way, the power was right there, waiting. It lapped around the edges of his mind like waves against the beach, and right now, it was pulling his control away the same way the waves pulled the sand from under people's feet – inexorably.

Consciously, Sam reached for his powers. He knew they were bad; evil, even. Letting them have a foothold was a bad thing. They opened the door for so many things he didn't want to deal with – they made him a monster. The powers were part of the blood, the blood he hated himself for; he didn't want to use them, he didn't want to have anything to do with them. Each time they came out Sam felt like a part of his humanity, his very _self_, was burned away. But for the first time, he was more frightened of the situation than of his powers. They were there, and they were strong, and right now, he wasn't.

They wanted out.

So did he.

He opened himself to them, letting them flow in, channeling them out. The headache was instant and blinding, but _totally_ worth it.

Silently, the shackles around his wrists opened. He glanced over, but Alastair was busy with Dean. Slowly, Sam sat up, absently wiping the blood off of his face as his nose began to bleed.

Quickly, as quietly as he could with shaking hands and blurred vision, he undid the shackles at his ankles. He used only his hands this time – letting the powers out from necessity was a sin of one caliber, and he had no plans to slip any further down that slope – and he slid off the altar. He never thought he would be so glad for bare feet.

Pushing away from his altar, Sam ignored the blood sliding down his chest and side and started toward Alastair. His hands clenched on air and he wished he had a gun, or a knife, or pretty much anything. He knew there wasn't much he could do against a demon bare-handed; but maybe if he could get a hold of the salt there might be a chance.

He made it about two feet from the demon. Dean's eyes widened a second before Alastair turned. Sam saw the demon's eyes flair a bit, his head cocking almost curiously.

"Now, how did you get loose?"

Sam didn't bother answering. Instead he focused all his attention, all his concentration, all his _hate_, on the figure standing there, so smug, so proud. He let the power tear from him, unleashed and without reservation.

Alastair staggered. His head snapped back as if he'd been punched. Then he turned back to Sam, eyes narrowed and a vague smirk playing over his features.

"Now, that was almost impressive," the demon said, reaching up to touch a trickle of blood from his lip. "The operative word being _almost_." His eyes flickered black. "Let me show you how it's done, you impudent puppy."

It was like being hit by the semi again. Sam felt the blast of Alastair's power, the sheer shockwave of it hitting him with a concussive push that shoved him off balance. Before he could fall, though, he felt the power wrap around him tightly, snaking over his arms and chest, and his feet lifted from the ground. The demon hefted him almost to the ceiling, then slammed his body down, throwing Sam into the cement floor with enough force that he felt himself bounce. Sam tried to gasp as he hit, his whole body jarred and battered – but his diaphragm had seized up, and he felt the old, familiar panic as he couldn't pull in any air.

Alastair leaned over him as Sam struggled to fill his lungs. He looked vaguely annoyed, but unworried and unruffled…as if he'd just swatted a fly.

"Interesting," the demon said, studying Sam as he gasped. "This was unexpected. I wanted to know how much you could do, but I didn't expect a full demonstration. Thank you for showing me how far you could go…and how much control you have – which, sadly, is not much." Alastair smiled like a viper. "Sad for you, anyway. If you were really powerful, you could help your brother; how does that feel?" Alastair almost purred. "Does it make you feel like a monster?"

"Shut up!" Dean screamed. "He's not a monster, you limp-dicked son of a bitch!"

Alastair ignored Dean, focusing his attention on Sam, who lay bleeding on the floor. "This is where you belong, at my feet, like all the rest of hell spawn," Alastair said. "Did you really think you could take me on? Just because you've played with a few of the younger children, do not assume you can bite their owner, little pet."

Sam tried to scream from empty lungs as agony engulfed him. It felt like someone hand reached inside his head and was shredding his brain, tiny little cut after tiny little cut. The world flickered in and out, huge red spots dancing across what vision he had left as his limbs spasmed pointlessly, almost convulsively. Somewhere outside the pain, somewhere far away, he heard Dean cry out, sounding panicked and enraged.

"Leave him alone! You're killing him!"

The pain cut off, the shock of its sudden ending almost as bad in its own way. Sam slumped to the ground, trying to see past the red, and realizing only as he blinked that it was blood covering his eyes. He gasped raggedly, one hand coming up to push against his skull, vaguely surprised to find it whole and hard, rather then broken and spongy.

"Point," Alastair growled. "I can hardly kill him before I've gotten all my information, now, can I?" Then the demon blinked lazily. "Oh, wait. Yes, I can."

Sam arched in agony as Alastair held out a hand and he felt the hot, jagged claws of the demon's mind reach inside and catch on things there, pulling, shredding, tearing him apart. "Let's see what color your insides are."

"Alastair! Stop it!" Dean shouted.

Sam folded again as the claws retracted.

"Down, boy. Sit. Stay." Alastair said to Sam, then looked at Dean. "Old Yellow-Eye's boy-toy is not quite up to snuff, is he? That's all right. I can just start in another place and work my way up."

Sam tensed, trying to get ready for a pain that there was no real way to prepare for.

"Hey –" Dean's voice broke. Sam looked up through blurry eyes to see tears running down Dean's sweaty, agonized face and blood running from his abraded wrists and wounded body. Dean swallowed, his eyes darting from Sam's to their captors. "Hey, Alastair. I give, okay? I'll talk. I'll tell you what I know."

Alastair looked up at Dean, his eyes narrowed. "'A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves. And ate the fellow, raw,'" the demon quoted, almost to himself.

Dean shifted nervously. "What?"

Alastair sighed. "I love poetry. There is always honesty in poems: real truth. That must be why so many poets go insane." Alastair studied his bloody hand for a moment. "My poetry is written in pain and inked in blood. It's a fleeting medium, but _I_ know when I've done well." He sighed, and then shrugged in a 'what can you do' sort of way.

He shook his head, as if clearing it – then took a step toward Dean. "So, what piece of honesty do you have to offer me, boy?"

"Well, I honestly think you're a twisted, psychotic, egomaniac, but I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

Alastair chuckled, wandering closer. "I suspected, yes. And I bet you knew I was going to do this." The demon's hand, still clutching his knife, came down in swift, savage arc, burying the knife in Dean's leg.

Dean howled.

"Now that's honesty," Alastair smirked. "Hold that thought. I'll be right back." He left the knife in Dean's leg and went to the table.

Sam glanced up. Met Dean's eyes. Dean nodded.

Sam struggled to his feet. The world flipped lazily, but Sam ignored the vertigo, making himself stay upright. He paid no attention to the blood dripping from his nose and ears, or to the screaming from the flayed flesh on his chest and side. He staggered over to Dean's altar, took hold of the knife hilt. Caught Dean's nod.

Sam pulled it free as carefully and painlessly as he could.

The cords stood out in Dean's neck as Sam pulled the weapon free, but his brother didn't make a sound. Sam tried to undo Dean's shackles, but the knife didn't even score the metal.

"Well, well, well. Trying again, are you pet? You're persistent. I'll give you that."

Sam dropped back into as close to a fighter's crouch as he could. "Just let us go." He knew it was pathetic as he said the words, but there just wasn't anything else left to try.

Alastair smiled, not unkindly. "Why should I?"

-o-

Dean grimaced as the demon smiled. His chest throbbed and burned, his wrists ached, his leg was a red, hot mess. And his heart twisted as he watched his brother paw the blood from his face and stand up against an impossible battle, one that he couldn't possibly win.

And one that Dean couldn't help with, trussed up on this slab like a hog on a butcher's table.

Sam didn't bother speaking again. Reaching down, he snatched the salt from the floor next to Dean's altar, and started to pour.

"Oh, no you don't," Alastair said, and for the first time Dean could hear real anger in his tone.

In a flash, the demon was back, dropping whatever he'd gotten from the table in order to snatch at Sam. Sam flung the salt up, aiming at the demon's face. Alastair cursed, ducking away, and Sam went back to work on his line, attempting to ward Dean, but the slab was just too big, and Alastair recovered far too quickly.

Growling, the demon reached out, snagging Sam's neck, his fingers digging in, holding tight. Sam spun, slashing with the knife, but Alastair – moving with inhuman speed – grabbed his hand and twisted, pushing Sam to his knees as he pulled the hand behind Sam's back. Sam went down so fast that Dean had no doubt the demon had used his power as well. Dean heard the knife land on the floor with a dull clatter.

Sam knelt, hunched, as the demon held him down, one hand digging into his neck, the other keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back in a hold that Dean knew well: one that could totally disable an opponent's arm…as fast or slow as the aggressor wanted to go. "Well, boy, yet another failed attempt to save your brother. Can you do anything right?"

The words were spoken with an almost amused curiosity. Sam's eyes flickered up to Dean's, and Dean's gut churned at the hopeless apology in them. Then Sam gasped, his eyes squeezing shut.

"I asked you a question, pet."

Dean saw Alastair shift, and Sam gasped again, hunching further. Dean recognized it as the reaction of someone who was slowly having their arm overextended.

"You son of a bitch, leave him alone!"

Alastair's eyes were cold. "I told him to sit and stay. He disobeyed orders – which I understand from your father is somewhat of a habitual problem with him." Alastair twitched and Sam made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

Dean jerked in his bonds. "What the hell do you want from us?" Dean asked, wincing as Sam shuddered.

"From you? Answers. From him? Truth." Alastair dipped close to Sam. "Tell me what you are, Samuel. Tell me what you are, and what your brother is, and what your purpose is. Just say it, and I'll go back to your brother. You can rest."

Dean bit his lip as Sam pulled in a ragged breath.

"I don't know what you mean," Sam finally said, his voice rough with strain.

"Wrong answer," Alastair said, and pushed. Dean heard the quick pops he knew had to be Sam's fingers slipping out of joint. Sam jerked, trying and failing to flinch away. Dean knew for sure now that the demon was holding him down with his powers. He could see it in the way Sam dropped as if pushed by unseen hands. Sam's breath hitched. "Try again. What are you, Samuel? Dean? You can feel free to play too. What is he? What are you? What is your connection to the angels?"

The arm went up again. Sam cried out, his face going a weird shade of gray that Dean had never seen before. "Hunters!" Sam cried. "We're hunters!"

"And?" The demon shoved again. This time the crack was louder, more distinctive. Dean knew that either Sam's wrist had just broken, or his elbow had come unhinged.

Sam blanched. His whole body shuddered. He seemed passed the ability to scream. "A-and wh- what?"

"What are you, Samuel? What _are_ you?"

Dean saw the moment when Sam finally comprehended the question. His eyes flared with a pain that had nothing to do with the physical, but was just as raw and exposed. "No."

"Yes," Alastair insisted. "You will say it. You will. What are you, Samuel?"

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes. Dean's heart lurched at the resignation he could see in him.

Alastair waited a moment then glanced up. "No? Fine. Dean? How about you? Are you in the mood for sharing?" Sam groaned as the demon pushed his arm up another millimeter. "What is your connection to the angels?"

"I eat a lot of angel food cake."

Sam winced and began panting, his eyes bulging slightly as the demon pushed again. "Are you sure that's your only answer?"

"I can hear them! I don't know why! Now, let him go! Please!"

"Truth," Alastair said, looking almost relieved, "is not half as fun as the pain it takes to get there." With that he wrenched Sam's arm all the way up, demonic strength allowing him to overextend the limb easily. There was a sound like ice shattering under a heavy boot, a dull crunch, and then Sam was screaming in earnest, his shoulder an odd lumpy mass sitting too high on his torso.

"Jesus! You didn't have to do that! I was talking!" Dean gasped, shuddering as his system once again flooded with adrenaline that he couldn't use.

Once Sam stopped screaming, Alastair simply shoved him aside, letting him fall over and writhe. The demon picked up his knife, and stepped over him, looking serene.

"I didn't have to, no. But I did enjoy it. Besides, he disobeyed." Alastair picked up the object he'd dropped before. Dean's heart stuttered.

It was a car battery.

He walked up to the altar watching as Dean swallowed. His eyes wandered down to the bloody hole in Dean's jeans where the knife had gone in. "I believe that I left a piece of my property there and you let it be taken." Alastair tsked, his eyes flicking slyly up to Dean's own. "And here I thought you were the obedient one."

Dean flashed on the sledgehammer scene from _Misery_ as the battery swung. The heavy block connected solidly with his knee, and Dean _felt_ his kneecap slide sideways. The massive, instant ache of it encased him from toe to groin, so hot and so big that he felt nauseous with it.

When he finally stopped wailing, Alastair was waiting patiently. "You lost my knife, I misplaced your knee. We're even."

"God, I hate you," Dean heard the near sob in his voice and couldn't find it in himself to care.

Alastair snorted. "You don't even know what hate is, not yet. But you'll learn. All my students do." He sat the battery down between Dean's bare feet, hooking up the cables he'd looped around his neck. "Now, let's talk about angels, shall we?"

-o-

Sam hadn't passed out, not really. Ironically, the pain kept him too aware of his body to fully pass out. But he'd drifted – his head full of shattered glass, his chest raw and bleeding, his shoulder a massive, hot weight. He'd drifted.

It was Dean screaming that pushed him back toward the world.

Dean shouldn't be screaming. No way. No.

Sam forced his eyes open. Dean was jerking in his chains, almost seizing as the demon smiled and pressed the metal ends of jumper cables into his bare feet.

The demon stopped for a moment. "So, are you ready to talk now?"

Dean shivered. It was a constant vibration that made something in Sam ache and burn. "Whatever," Dean murmured. "Dude. Whatever you want. Just," his brother's breath hitched in a sob. "Just don't…anymore."

The demon smiled. "Seems like you boys have a chewy, nougaty center after all. Just took awhile to find it; though I can't say that the search hasn't been enjoyable." He used the cables again.

As Dean jerked, Sam's sluggish brain began to work. He opened his mouth, the words coming automatically, and quickly. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica –"_

Alastair screamed, dropping the cable and reaching for his head.

"_Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. cessa decipere humanas creaturas…" _

Growling a low and deadly noise, Alastair staggered toward Sam.

"_--eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare…"_

Sam felt himself flipped, his arm rolling with the motion in a symphony of shattered bones and dislocated joints. But Sam kept chanting. It wasn't hope, or even courage that motivated him, just plain stubbornness. He wasn't going to stop until Alastair _made_ him stop.

Alastair snarled, looking frayed at the edges, looking like he was in a little of his own pain, and not the fun kind. Sam couldn't be unhappy about that.

"Another mistake, boy," the demon growled, and hit him, a hard, fast blow to the throat.

Sam felt something crunch, and then he was gasping, trying to suck air past the weirdly thick, constricting agony that was trying to strangle him.

"No more talking, smart ass," the demon hissed. Then he straightened, smoothing his hair. "In fact, no more of this. Playtime is over, kiddies, as much fun as this has been. I still need the information. Break the body; destroy the mind." Alastair's foot lashed out at Sam, catching him in his mangled shoulder. Instantly, the demon seemed to feel better.

"It's like dinner _and_ dessert."


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

"I just don't understand," Alastair said irritably, more at the brothers then to them. "Azazel isn't stupid. He's a vain, pompous, self-righteous prick – but not stupid. I understand wanting to write oneself into the prophecy. I can see _what_ he's doing…but not the _why_. And not why you two, specifically."

He took a hissing kind of breath, staring at them through narrowed eyes. He slammed the knife into the stone, next to Dean's head. The boy, bleeding and shivering, barely even flinched. "It's beginning to piss me off."

He prodded at Dean, but the human was almost nonreactive and definitely not fun. Alastair found himself sighing. "I think I broke you."

Dean's slitted eyes didn't even focus. Honestly, he was more irritated with how fragile they had turned out to be then with the fact that they hadn't really given him any new information.

He had wanted to play more.

His eyes tracked to the creature pulling thin, broken breaths on the floor. That one had managed to ruffle Alastair's feathers. The exorcism had been a stupid and desperate move and Alastair knew that he had overreacted. Now the boy couldn't answer questions. He wouldn't be speaking for quite some time. Hell, he wouldn't be _breathing_ properly for quite some time.

Ah, well. There were other ways to get information. Words were only the window dressing anyway.

Alastair stepped over to the boy on the floor, grinning a bit as the boy shuddered weakly at his approach. It was nice to be appreciated.

He took the boy's bad arm and started dragging him, ignoring the muted pops and groans from the demolished joint, and the equally muted, hissing cries from the person attached to it.

Once they got back to the boy's altar, Alastair hefted the limp, hot body back into place. "Ally-oop, pet. Can't have you wandering while I'm dreaming, now, can I?"

The boy didn't answer, his head rolling aimlessly. His breathing stuttered.

Boring. Alastair sighed, locking the shackles back into place. Turning from the boy, his eyes followed the artistic swirl of the blood trail from the puddle next to Dean's altar to Sam's. It was so delicate, so graceful. Alastair's gaze softened in pleasure. "It's the little details that impress me, you understand?"

Neither boy responded.

"Philistines."

Checking Sam's restraints one last time, Alastair went back to the table. He had come prepared. Quickly, he mixed the herbs, crushing them in the silver chalice.

He mentally flipped a coin, and landed on Samuel.

Good.

Alastair smiled from the shadows.

-o-

Sam shuddered as the demon approached him again, but didn't bother to move his eyes. They were locked on a blurry form that he knew to be Dean. He held that thought like a security blanket. Dean was still there. Still breathing. It was the only real thought he could manage.

Every part of Sam burned. Ached. Black and red flashed in his vision, and his hands and feet felt cold, though his chest and shoulder felt so hot that he burned with it. He couldn't feel his arm below that, and didn't care. Each breath was an acidic burn through a narrow straw; sometime he had to break off and inhale or exhale two or three times just to complete a breath. His whole throat didn't so much hurt as _press_ – he felt like it should be bulging like a lumpy timorous mass. Blood puddle, cooling and becoming sticky under him. A similar pool was slowly collecting at the base of Dean's altar. Except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Dean wasn't really moving much anymore, at all.

Alastair leaned over him, and Sam mentally groaned at the friendly, chatty expression on the demon's face. He was so tired of this.

"Information is life, in Hell," Alastair said. "Not knowing what your enemies are up to? That can get you killed. And they are _all_ enemies. I need the information you hold. The fact that you've told me jack just makes me more curious."

Alastair smiled. Sam closed his eyes against it.

There was an irritated huff. "You can close your eyes all you want, pet, but I'm still here. This is still happening. Both of you have broken, both of you would be babbling the length of your inseam if I asked…but you haven't said a word about what I really need to know. So either you really _don't_ know, or someone has stoppered those specifics up like a djinn in a bottle inside you. This means we go with plan number two and fish those facts out of your skull with a big freaking hook. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

He slapped at Sam's face and Sam opened his eyes. The demon grinned, actually grinned, like Sam should be excited at the prospect.

Alastair shrugged at his lack of response. "Just so you know, my taking of information from you is strictly business, and though I might enjoy it – in fact, I will enjoy every agonizing second – that's just a bonus. When I kill you and your brother afterward, it's only to thwart old Yellow-Eyes before he can grab the brass ring. Because I know he's after the brass ring…and I'm pretty sure that _you_ are the horse he's riding to get it. And if I kill the horse, he can't get there." Alastair patted Sam on the leg.

Sam hissed another cry as the hard fingers pushed into his torn flesh. The involuntary noise raked at his already mangled throat. Sam gasped. He gagged, and coughed up copper. Had barely enough energy left to turn his head to the side and spit out the blood before it choked him.

"But if it makes you feel better, you don't have to bleed so much for this next part," The demon said. "You do have to bleed…just not as much."

Sam watched through eyes that were strangely dim as Alastair lifted a metal cup. He pressed the cup into Sam's torn and inflamed side, and Sam couldn't help crying out. The noise scraped free of his abraded throat, and, through the pain of it, he saw Alastair closing his eyes to better appreciate the wretched, coughing noise that escaped his mangled larynx. The demon then smiled down at him, catching the blood in the cup the way he caught the scream, slowly and with relish.

Alastair spoke words over the cup that Sam didn't even bother to try to hear. He looked up, and Sam found himself caught by his gaze as he gasped brokenly on the stone.

"To your health," the demon toasted, and drained the cup.

"Now," he muttered, "Let's see what you see, little pet."

Nothing happened. No pain, no more soliloquies. Just…nothing.

But without anything to hold him, Sam quickly found himself drifting, fading away from the pain and the fear and the cold that had seeped into every part of him.

Sam felt the world blur, grow dark, and then he was – not dreaming, it was too…thin, for a dream. Too much _not_ there. It was faded and patchy and Sam felt the holes like a twisted kind of vertigo.

But for all that, it was a little like reliving things, without the depth or the color. Dream, but not; memory, but not.

And Alastair was there. For some reason. Sam knew he was there, knew he was watching it all, taking it all in like a person watching a boring movie as Sam's mind darted from image to image.

Around him, more felt then seen, Alastair complained incessantly about the lack of organization in the human mind. "How do you people find anything?

_Was he supposed to be looking for something?_ Sam wondered vaguely. He let his own life wash over him. He wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about their lives flashing in front of their eyes before they died. He saw images of John and Bobby from when he was small, Jess, smiling at him, and Dean – Dean Dean Dean. Dean when he was small, Dean when he was a teenager, Dean in the last few months, trying so hard to be untouched by everything and therefore giving Sam a place, a person, where he could hold on to everything – to his very humanity – that he felt slipping all the damn time.

"Yes, fine. This is all very sweet," Alastair said, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere. "But can we focus, please. I'm getting cavities."

Instantly the light, almost flowing nature of the images got heavy. Sam could almost feel the demon flicking through his thoughts, searching.

"Ah."

Sam found himself laying in a bed, a familiar bed, one that terrified him because he knew it so well. "No," Sam whispered, staring at the cracked, aged-white plaster above him. He could taste chocolate-chip cookies and iron panic on his tongue. "Jess. Oh, god, no."

It wasn't fair. He was dying, he could feel it – he recognized the creeping cold of it from that lonely road in Cold Oak. He _knew,_ with a certainty that went as deep as his blood, that nothing pleasant waited for him on the other side. Why did his last moments have to filled with this? Why not Jess in the sun? In the park? Coming toward him across the quad? Why this?

"Because this?" Alastair said. "This is the point. These are the only parts of your life that actually matter, Samuel. Didn't you know that?"

"Why, Sam?" Jess asked, pinned on the ceiling like a butterfly on velvet, gut opened like a ripe fruit. She was split and torn and bleeding down on him like a baptism. "Why, Sam? _Why, Sam_?"

"Seems I'm not the only one to ask you that question." The demon spoke, his voice a raw, nasal hum that buzzed in Sam's brain like a bee in a tin can. "Why don't you answer the lady?"

On the bed, Sam gasped and shuddered, unable to move his body, unable to look away. It wasn't like he had to look; this moment, every second of it, every sensation, had been seared into his heart by the same flames that had taken Jess.

The ones that would happen…now.

Sam gasped as the fire bloomed, opening behind her and swirling forward, fast and hungry, always hungry. Sam watched, wide-eyed, knowing what happened next but unable to block it – unwilling to block it. This was his, and he wouldn't turn away from it just because it hurt.

But instead of the fire and the pain and the screaming, the scene stopped. Just froze. Jess bleeding and burning above the bed, trapped in a horribly beautiful plume of flames, and Sam locked in place below.

"Well, that's at least interesting. The thing that started you back into the world of the dark. But why does this shine in you like it does?"

That weird flickering sensation happened again, and he remembered his own voice telling Dean: "I had dreams about the fire for weeks before it happened, but I didn't do anything to stop it."

"Ah," Alastair said, almost bored. "You saw it, you knew that it was going to happen, but you refused to act. You hid your head in the sand like a civilian, and refused to deal with what you are and she died for it. I begin to see a pattern here."

The memory rolled forward. Jess writhed and burned. Sam screamed. Dean grabbed him –

"How did your brother know, little pet?" Alastair asked. "How did he know to come back for you?"

Sam felt his heart catch. He'd never wondered, never even questioned. He'd needed and Dean had been there; that was as much a part of his existence as air.

"Interesting," the demon mused again, and Sam shuddered at the hungry tone. "Was he hearing angels even then? Without knowing it? But why would they send him back for you?"

Alastair sneered. "There is no way the _pure_ would care if you burned. So maybe it was just a good guess. Clues put together and hunter's instinct? Or was it just the right decision? You chose wrongly in deciding to ignore your visions and your fears. He chose correctly in listening to his instincts. That sounds more likely to me."

Sam couldn't help the flinch. And the demon chuckled. "Moving on, then. Our time is limited, and I do want to know about this blood of yours. Do you know how you came to have it?"

The world flickered, and suddenly Sam was standing in his own nursery, the Yellow-Eyed demon smiling next to him. "Better than mother's milk," Azazel said softly.

Sam watched, shaking in a mix of horror, revulsion and wild rage, as the baby he had been was force-fed demonic blood. He watched as his innocence was destroyed, and he felt it like a brand, like a gap, like a fire that was burning in him, consuming him, even now. The infant started screeching, and Sam knew it was from the pain…a cold so deep and sharp that it felt hot. It was a pain he'd always lived with – that he'd felt every moment of his whole damned life – but that had been unnamed and unrecognized until this moment, when Yellow-Eyes had given that horrible burning hollow in his soul a name, a cause.

"He blooded you," Alastair voice commented, sounding almost disappointed. Sam's heart pounded as Azazel disappeared and the room flashed into flame. But it wasn't fear that set his heart to hammering. Sam's rage flared, as hot and wild and hungry as the fire around him.

"Come out here, you son of a bitch," Sam called to Alastair, anger burning through him like the flames burned through the echo of the nursery around him. "We'll see how much fun this can be." Sam hardly recognized the snarl as his own voice, and didn't care. He wanted blood, he wanted vengeance, he wanted someone to hurt like he had, for years and years without relief and without comfort. He wanted to kill.

The demon only chuckled. "Part and parcel of the territory, pet. That kind of rage, it comes with wounds to the soul that don't get treated. It infects a tear in a soul like bacteria in a wound. Eats away at control and reason. Let it out. You know you want to."

The taunt caught at what was left of Sam's reason in a way nothing else could have. He laughed, falling to his knees in the burning wreck of his nursery. "No. I can't. I _won't_."

"No?" Alastair repeated sounding vaguely disappointed. "You could use that rage to fight me; maybe stop me and save your brother – but you selfishly say no. Wrong decision again, pet."

And before Sam could even begin to think, the world jerked and there was a new memory. Another wrong decision.

Sam was pinned to the wall. In front of him stood his mother, a woman he'd never even really met. She smiled so kindly at Dean, speaking his name in loving pride. Then she turned to her younger son. Her smile faded. The look in her eyes wasn't pride or love…it was grief. "Sam. I'm sorry."

It tore at his heart.

"You know what it was she was sorry for, don't you, pet?"

"Shut up," Sam hissed, shaking.

"Oh, come now. It's not difficult to figure out, is it? Especially not for a bright guy like you."

"Stop it," Sam almost begged, all his earlier rage evaporating in the scorching wave of self-loathing that rolled through him. "Just stop it."

"Why should I? This is just too much fun. Well, at least you know you come by your lack of the ability to make the right choice honestly. She screwed it up as well. How does it feel to be the result of one of the biggest mistakes in human history?"

Alastair rifled through Sam's memories, making Sam relive every horror, every mistake. Laughing at Sam's failed attempts to help people, at the many times Dean had to save his ass, at all the bad choices. He'd chosen to leave his family, chosen to abandon his brother, quitting hunting had worked out so well, and they could both see how suited he was to a normal life. The demon pointed out how every choice led Sam to…ruin.

"You can't help it, pet," Alastair breathed the words, as the last of the images faded out and Sam slumped alone in the dark. "You can't help it. It's in your blood."

"No." And Sam hated himself for the sob in the statement.

"Yes," Alastair hissed, as mean and as joyful as only a monster can be. "Never have been able to choose the right way have you, pet? You were wrong to fight your father – he knew what you were, and he wanted to keep the world safe from you, but you couldn't listen. You couldn't do what he told you to, not even for the sake of your poor brother. You were wrong to leave your family and try to live away from all this. Wrong to choose your desire, your selfish want for a ridiculous and impossible normality, over your father's control and your brother's need. Wrong in perusing Jessica; to think even for a second that anyone could love you and not die for the sin of it.

"The only thing you haven't been wrong about is what you hide. What you _know_. That you really are evil. Deep down, where you think no one can see you, you know that you chose the wrong path because you are nothing but a tool for evil. You're a walking curse on the earth, Samuel. Every choice you make, did any of them ever lead to anything other then pain for those around you? Have you ever done anything in this world that _didn't_ spread rot and disaster? You're selfish, Sam, Hell, you've killed every person who ever dared to love you…including Dean now.

"That's a better percentage rate than most demon-kind." Alastair said, sounding impressed. "And that was all accidental. Imagine what damage you could do if you were _trying_. No wonder no one trusts you. No one ever should."

The words hit Sam as hard and sharp as any of Alastair's knives. And the worst part was knowing that Alastair was right. No matter how much he fought, no matter how much he denied, Alastair was right…he was a monster. He hurt people. He killed them. And every single thing he did only made everything so much worse. He never intended it, but was true just the same.

The world would be a better place if he had just stayed dead.

The memory summoned by his suffering, Sam was suddenly back in Cold Oak, the wet, cold mud seeping through his jeans as he slumped to the ground. The weird, terrible feeling as his body stopped reacting to his thoughts. The slow rush of ice in his veins as death moved in. Dean's pain and his own sight dimming and all he could think was _sorrysorrysorry_. _Sorry to leave you, sorry that you got stuck with me, sorry that I'm hurting you again._

Anger and guilt – they were the cornerstones of his inner landscape, and he just couldn't lift them anymore. The darkness was calling. He could feel it, growing from the memory of death into this very real, present death, waiting only for him to give himself over. And he wanted to – oh yes, he so wanted that darkness, that peace. Even if he ended up in Hell, he wanted out of this world, before he could do even more damage.

He didn't belong here. He never had.

His breath coming thin and hot, Sam heard Dean's voice in his head. _As long as we've got each other's backs, we can handle anything. Even this._

Even this.

_Not this time, big brother,_ Sam thought, and let the darkness come.

-o-

"You were dead?" Angry, Alastair tore himself free of Sam's head, and seeing the limp body, the way the chest was hitching, he snarled silently. The memory of death was a complete surprise. If it was a real memory, it was…maybe not impossible, but definitely not permissible. Yet, the memory had been too substantial, too _complete_, to be anything other then honest… and too powerful to be blocked even by Alastair's abilities.

The demon growled again, feeling the boy using the memory to escape him. Sam was giving in to the memory of his death, and trying to use it to die again.

"No," Alastair growled. "You don't get off that easily." Viciously, he backhanded the boy, just to remind him of his flesh. Of his pain. He glared, reaching carefully back into the boy's mind, pulling forth another memory, in an attempt to tear Sam free of his remembered death and the escape it promised. Alastair pulled up the image of Sam, returned to life by Azazel. He wrenched the experience from the tortured mind, forcing the boy to relive the agony of returning to the flesh, the burn of Azazel's unholy touch all over again. He coaxed the feelings from Sam's unconscious, blocking his attempt to die – both then and now.

Sam jerked awake, cold and bloody and devastated in mind and body.

"Well," Alastair panted, "That was unexpected."

The demon hissed, turning from the table and casting out a wave of rage that flipped the little table halfway across the room. "That was _very_ much unexpected. There is a natural order to life, pet. I know it, I see it. And I serve it. All order comes from chaos; and all chaos becomes order. It's the oldest truth, the only truth. All patterns eventually break down. I love the breaking point. But to have that, we all must follow the rules. Bend them, yes, that's allowable, but bringing someone back from the dead…that _breaks_ the rules. And where one breaks free, it opens the floodgates for everyone else. That's not beautiful chaos…that's just _pointless_ anarchy. And for what? You? _Why_? What use would you, specifically, be to a creature as powerful as Azazel? You bleed and break just like any mortal!"

Real disgust twisted the demon's features. "Stooping this low, getting involved in human affairs like this…it's just unseemly. There is _no_ sane reason, unless…"

Alastair's angry words broke off in a hiss of realization. He stared at the broken boy on the stone, hollow, black eyes going wide. Sam's blood dripped.

Slowly Alastair began to laugh – it was a harsh noise in the silent room. The bark of it bounced sharply off the corrugated steel walls. "Damn you, Azazel," he finally muttered, but not unappreciatively. "I see it now. Oh, yes, I see it now. The whole despicable pattern of it. Why you need this one, and why you need John. And you should hope that you have a back up plan because otherwise I won't be the only one in Hell after your worthless hide!"

The candles flared, a sudden sulfuric wind raced through the room, setting the steel sheeting of its walls shaking.

Then the demon took a breath, calming himself. He smoothed his hair and turned back to Sam.

He stared at the barely breathing lump for a few moments, debating. He could let the boys live. He could show up at just the right moment, wrest the spotlight from Azazel – he knew enough, he understood it now. He could claim the place that Azazel was so carefully carving out for himself in the prophecy. He, Alastair, could take it all….

Then his black eyes flickered to Dean.

Yes…that was a problem. There was something there, something as yet undefined.

Something with the ability to break prophecy and shatter carefully made plans?

Maybe.

Alastair licked his lips, tongue flickering as he stared at Dean, bleeding and helpless. "One quick peek, just to check my options. I have the time."

He took a step toward the older boy. Samuel made a noise, a slow sad grunt, but the desperation of it was clear.

Alastair smiled. "You don't like me going toward your brother? How sweet. That moves me. It really does. But your brother is his own mystery, what with his feeling the angel ward and all. And frankly, that just creeps me out. Connected to angels? Do you know how messed up those creatures are? You think demons are bad? When was the last time we laid waste to a whole city? Or killed everyone's first-borns? Or turned somebody to salt? No. I'm sorry, Samuel, but your brother is a freak, and it's my responsibility to figure him out, then eliminate him. The other side is the enemy, too, after all."

Alastair smiled down at Sam. He ran a cool finger through the hot tears sliding down the boy's face, past his temples and into his hair. The sensation wasn't much different from the feel of the blood sliding over his host's skin.

"That is what beauty is made of – the horrible mix of truth and pain. The moment when all patterns and all people break."

He watched vaguely interested, as unconsciousness slowly pulled Sam under. Alastair smiled, saying only: "And now for you, angel-food."

-o-

Dean was vaguely aware of the demon hovering. He knew he wanted to pass out, but a lingering concern (_I haven't heard Sam in a while, why haven't I heard Sam in a while_) was keeping him from the restful darkness. There was a flare of pain in his side, but it was just the flash of a shooting star in a sky full of bright planets.

"Cheers, kid," the demon said.

But Dean had never felt less cheery in his life.

For a time there was quiet, and Dean couldn't hold on to the room, to his broken body. In truth, he didn't really want to anymore. He and Sam were dead. It was time to stop fighting it and let go.

Dean felt it creep over him like a cold draft, like a chunk of ice down his back – like a reaper's touch. He felt the cold and the burn, and the odd hollowness that said he was way too far down that road already:

Roads and death: for Dean they were always linked…

He could remember sitting on the hood of the Impala, tucked against his father's warm side as they waited in the street, watching his home and his mother burn.

"She died while you shuddered in the road like an abandoned dog." It was Alastair's voice, but the words were as familiar to Dean as his own thoughts. "While you sought comfort, she fried. What kind of son are you?"

The kind of son who watches while his mother dies. The kind who causes his father's death. Dean knew this. And suddenly he was in the doorway of the hospital, watching as John was pronounced dead. He couldn't even say that he watched as his dad struggled, because there was no struggle, just a corpse where his dad had once been.

And it had been his fault.

"Of course it was," Alastair's voice confirmed. "It had to have been. But did you do anything to help him, to try and save him? Stop him? No. You _watched_. That's all you ever do. You see the people you love struggling, _dying_, and you _watch_."

_Not true_, Dean wanted to deny, _not true_. He had tried with Sammy. He had.

And Dean was there again, holding his brother's limp, boneless body in the middle of the muddy street. He could see the shock, the surprise in Sam's face as it went slack, and he could almost hear his brother's thoughts: _Where were you? I needed you. Why weren't you here?_

And Dean wanted to scream as his brother went heavy in his arms – a limp dead weight.

"See," the demon's voice floated almost serenely through the night. "You were never there when he needed you the most. Never helped him with Jessica's death. Not that you could. You've never had an adult relationship in your life."

_Cassie_. He was suddenly with her, reliving their brief days together. He had loved her. He really thought he could. He had opened himself to her…and she had ripped his heart out. He felt it again: her disbelief, her disgust and anger. Her rejection.

The same kind of rejection he'd run from his whole life.

So he'd run back to his dad, tail between his legs and wounded heart buried under a string of more and more dangerous hunts and too much alcohol, until his dad told him to go check on Sammy.

But he hadn't been able to approach his brother, afraid of his reception. He hadn't exactly stood up for his brother when their dad rejected _him_.

"And now you knew what rejection from a loved one felt like. And you didn't like it. Your brother had to live with that, but did you ever try to help him? Ever? No. You never even let him morn his father's death which, oh yeah, you caused. No, you were such the awesome big brother that you took out all your anger on him, and denied him any connection to the only family he had left."

Dean saw Sam in front of him in the dark parking lot, looking concerned and upset and worried. And he hit him for it. Punched him. Sent him reeling – but Sam had been right. Dean had been half crazed and trying to replace their dad with a poor shadow. And Sam had never held it against him, not that punch or any of the others. And he had never just talked to his brother. Sam had been so scared over the powers, over not being human, over causing so much death…and instead of helping him, Dean had brushed him off.

He lived through those moments again, watching Sam's face crumble, watching the fear grow in his eyes as time after time Dean turned away. Every time Sam reached out, Dean had run like a coward because it was too much – and he'd caused Sam even more pain and doubt.

"So much for the Brother of the Year award that you seem to think you deserve," the demon sneered. "But Sam wasn't the only one you let down, was he?"

The scene shifted, and he was in a hospital bed. Confused and sore, but feeling fine. His dad sent Sam out of the room. Whispered: Watch out for him. Save him, or kill him.

Dean could feel the hiss of the words even all this time later, the weight of them. An impossible task. Unfair and cruel, and how the hell could he be expected to kill his brother? How!

"Blew it on both counts didn't you?" Alastair pointed out. "Couldn't save him. Won't kill him. Tell me, Dean, what use are you?"

Sam was standing at the gate, lost and confused but back. Alive. Dean felt the remembered ache of twin emotions: horror and hope.

"But you failed here, too, didn't you?" Alastair taunted, before the hope could grow. Pulling at old wounds, pushing Dean's memories forward. Dean could feel it, but was helpless to stop it.

Sam came back from the dead…but changed. Using powers Dean had never seen, pulling farther and farther away, and Dean didn't know how to hold on to him anymore. Dean felt himself changing. Hearing voices. Feeling things he shouldn't. He had felt, then, the echo of Sam's horror, knowing only now the panic that came with the idea that he was changing into something unnatural. Becoming the hunted rather then the hunter. Dean wanted to rip the ability out of himself, kill it – he felt so dirty, tainted and disgusting.

"Freak," Alastair called him. And it burned… like the salt the demon had dumped into his wounds, it burned.

And he remembered calling Sam that, trying to joke, never realizing how badly it hurt. _Sorry_, he thought, _I'm so damned sorry, Sam_.

"Unnatural things, the both of you. But at least your unnaturalness is wholesome. Right?"

Dean's memories flipped to the angels. Hearing them and thinking he'd gone insane, finally and almost thankfully. Then Bob…in the car, in the motel, talking to Sam. The way Sam's face had shuttered at the knowledge of his demon blood, of his taint.

What Dean didn't say to his brother was that he wasn't truly human anymore _either_. That other hunters would come after them both, now. Hating them both for the blood they both carried.

He knew that saying these things could help his brother, make him feel less alone. But he just couldn't do it. He couldn't face acknowledging these things about himself. Not even to help Sam.

"Selfish little boy," Alastair said, his tone almost sing-song. "'I'll help you, only so long as it doesn't hurt me. I'll be loyal to you, only so long as you give _everything_ over to me. I'll love you, only so long as you follow my rules and don't make me see or do or feel anything I don't want. I'll help you, but only when I want.'"

It was too much. Just too much. A failure to his family, a failure at being an adult, a failure at having any kind of normalcy…and now even his humanity was failing. It was just way too much.

Dean felt that road, dark and cold and lonely, stretching out before him. He hated being alone, but he had done it to himself. He didn't deserve a family. He had failed.

Those were his last thoughts as he started down the road, into the dark.

-o-

Alastair pulled himself from Dean's unconscious like a bloated leach leaving a host.

And he did feel full, and fulfilled.

"Well boys," Alastair said to them, looking them over. Sam was pretty much unconscious, Dean was close to that point himself. Both boys were beat to hell – swollen and broken and bleeding.

Lovely.

Alastair sighed. "I think we're done here. I have a pretty good picture of what makes you so perfect for Azazel; and I know the 'why' now. At least, I know why he thinks you two fit the mold. Me? I've still got my doubts. I've never been a man of great faith." He smirked.

"It has been nice to get you know you two in person. John did love to talk about you two – one could almost say he babbled like a fool. But there is a natural order to things – a dark room for every candle, a moon for every sun, a predator for every species of prey. Azazel has gone way past that balance in his little quest. And he's gone way beyond his station with you two. He has a chance to move his little pawn across the board and come out a Queen. That would make him above me. That _can't_ happen. So it's time to take his pieces off the board. And if that upsets him, well, then, that's just extra special.

"So, you two have to die." He looked them over. They were broken: wounded and weeping blood and tears, and still restrained so they couldn't have fought back, even if they'd had any fight left, which Alastair sincerely doubted. He was very good at his job, after all.

He had his information, and he'd had his fun. Now it was time to end them.

"And at this point, it's almost a mercy." Alastair observed thoughtfully. "Huh. Me, showing mercy. Will wonders never cease?"

He smiled a little at the irony. He did love the poetry of it. "Well, boys, thank you for the evening. It's been enjoyable and enlightening. And you did well, really. You've had a good run. But all good things must come to an end."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: After this episode, we'll be having a short three-week hiatus. Keep checking back with us for information on the next episode! Thanks :)

PART FOUR

Dean had almost died before. At least twice, in fact, but more if he counted up all the close calls and near misses. But the two times that mattered, the ones that had really _affected _him, were more vivid than the rest.

The rawhead had done a number on his heart, but left his soul intact. Even Azazel's worst in the cabin had ripped his body apart but kept his spirit whole. He would never admit it, but he'd been scared both times, frightened of leaving the safe and warm, into the expansive unknown.

Laying on Alastair's altar, death still frightened him. But life frightened him more.

It was a paralyzing dichotomy, the lesser of two evils he could never choose between. The terrifying, unknown release of death or the painful clinging to a life that would never be the same again. A life he wasn't even sure he _wanted_.

In the end, it was a moot point. The decision was not his to make. Alastair, for all of his cutting and poking, mocking and belittling, had no reason left to let Dean live. Dean had nothing left to give, nothing left to fight for--the demon had taken _everything_, things Dean didn't know he had. Things Dean didn't know he could give up.

That should have bothered him more than it did, but right then, Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Not anymore. His entire _existence_ was pathetic. Nothing more than a shoddy collection of failed promises and weak lies. For all of his efforts, for all of his good intentions, there was nothing to show. The only thing he'd ever wanted--the only thing he'd ever really fought for--his _family_--and he hadn't come close to saving any of it. To keeping them together, to saving their lives. From his mother, to his father, to his brother, Dean's best was never good enough.

How long did he have to fight to just keep failing? When would he just _learn_ that there was no happy ending? A shudder rippled through his weak form as he remembered his father's black eyes and the twisted look of concentration on his father's face as he'd strangled Sam.

There would be no family reunion. There was no hope in family.

There was no hope in _anything_.

That wasn't entirely true, though, and the thought buoyed him to partial awareness yet again. With effort, he turned his head, straining to get a look at his brother.

Sam was limp on the other altar, bloody and broken. His cries had tapered off awhile ago, and Dean could see the mottled red on Sam's throat and wondered briefly if Sam even _could _scream anymore. There was blood everywhere, and, in truth, Sam looked worse than he ever had before--worse even than when he was dead.

But his brother wasn't dead--not now. Not yet. Dean could see the rapid rise and fall of Sam's chest, shallowly moving air in and out, in and out. Sam was alive--if only barely so.

That fact didn't hurt as much as it would have before all this, but Dean couldn't fight the surge of regret that settled over him. He couldn't save his brother from this. He'd promised Sam, just before this hunt began, that they could do anything together. That Winchesters were _invincible_.

Another white lie that could get them killed.

This time, that _would _get them killed.

Sam deserved better than this.

"Who first, who first?" Alastair's voice mused from someplace above him.

Dean turned his head away from his brother, squeezing his eyes shut. Was it horribly selfish that he hoped that he could go first this time? That he wouldn't have to witness his brother's death again? Even this close to the other side, even this aware of his innate failure, Dean wasn't sure he could take it.

There was movement, soft and subtle, and he knew it should worry him, but he didn't have the energy. Instead, his broken mind wandered, flitting in and out of awareness, drifting into an increasing haze of oblivion.

He remembered then, what Sam told him about the afterlife. It was suddenly very clear to him, the hurt on Sam's face when he told Dean the truth about what happened to him. Sam never moved on. He never followed the infamous bright light. He didn't disappear like their mother and he didn't let go like Molly. He just _wandered_, hurting and lost and alone for what could have been eternity.

Dean couldn't help but wonder if it would be the same this time. If Sam would cling brokenly to the remnants of this wasted life. If they would see each other again, two lost and wandering souls. If they would even still recognize each other for the people they had once been.

There was a solace in that thought: him and Sam, a pair of ghosts for forever more. The havoc they could wreak without bodies to worry about. The times they could have with nothing like _life_ to slow them down. Hell, Dean would even be able to fly without hyperventilating. It might be kind of awesome.

The thought made Dean smile, almost drunkenly. The idea of being together with Sam in a place where they would always be strong, stronger than just about anything they might face. A place where there wouldn't be angels to tell them what to do or demons to taunt them or their father--

It was a beautiful thought.

Mercy. Alastair was right. _This _would be mercy.

"As much as your sudden enthusiasm is quite charming, I wouldn't smile about it all just yet," Alastair crooned, his voice lingering in the stagnant air. "I can't say quite what's on the other side for you, Dean-o, but for Sam here, I'm afraid it's not going to be very pleasant."

The dream vanished for what it was, and Dean stiffened. He blinked slowly, his gaze working to focus on the demon once again.

Alastair was standing closer than Dean expected, hovering by his side with a smirking half-grin on his face.

"Think about it. He's got _demon blood _in him," the demon explained. "You couldn't possibly think that there is anything for him on the other side that's _good_, could you? Your angel friends may find him, shall we say..._useful_, but that is hardly a heaven-sent acceptance letter. To them, he's as useful a nuclear bomb, and just as deadly, if they play their pieces right. But after all that boom and death, little Sammy's soul is heading right after your daddy's."

It was an awful truth, and one Dean had no defiance left to overlook. He had never thought of it like that--never _allowed _himself to think of it like that. Bob Marvin had always been somewhat put off by Sam, and while Dean had found it inconvenient, he'd never thought it was dangerous. Angels wouldn't condemn someone who was tainted as a baby, would they? For something Sam never had any say over?

Bob had shown compassion for Sam. Saved his life.

But even angels had their motives. Bob had never been overly forthcoming, and it was a hard notion to swallow. That, in the end, Bob could be using them just as readily and easily as Alastair was. As their father was.

They were nothing more than pawns in a cosmic game of chess, and the sacrifice might not just be their lives, but their souls.

Dean felt like hyperventilating. Hot tears slipped from his eyes, and he shook his head in pathetic denial.

Because as bad as the idea of Sam wandering as a spirit might have been, the idea of committing Sam's soul to the hands of _demons_? To be stretched out on a rack for _eternity_?

He couldn't bear it.

"But much better things for you, I would guess," Alastair assured him.

Dean had given up begging long ago, but this was worse than before. Worse than anything. He swallowed, willing his voice to work, but the words were garbled in his throat, and he choked them back down into his chest.

Alastair raised his eyebrows, appraising Dean with something akin to curiosity. "What's that now? Please, hurry up? Well, all right then. Send my regards to the big guy, and I'll make sure Sam gets top-notch accommodations down under."

Dean's eyes darted toward Sam again, a last-ditch effort to see his brother--to see him one last time--

Sam looked so young. So painfully and horribly _young_, like he was nothing more than a sleepy eyed eight-year-old who had cried himself to sleep in an empty motel room.

He looked so _innocent_ then. He looked so innocent now.

It wasn't fair. It _wasn't fair_. The sheer injustice of it made Dean want to scream.

Then a wave of pain overtook him with at fast and relentless pace. It crested, easing just slightly before it ransacked his body again, tearing him loose from the very deepest places.

And then he _did_ scream.

Loud and wrenching, with a voice he didn't know he still had.

It was worse than before, stronger and encompassing. No knives this time, no precise flaying of the skin. No spells or hallucinations. Just simple, agonizing _pain_, tearing him apart from the inside out, raking across each organ, each synapse, until it was all he knew.

He'd felt this before--or some version of it. In the cabin with their father, with Azazel, where he felt like he was drowning in his own blood and screams.

Only, this time, he heard Sam screaming, too. He couldn't be sure he wasn't hallucinating it, but the timber of Sam's agony was too resonant to be imagined.

And yet, there was nothing to be done for it.

Dean's body bucked, convulsing with the intensity of it all, but the electric current of pain was unwavering, zinging deeper and deeper. The unyielding torment eclipsed his entire awareness until he forgot about the sound of his brother's voice, he forgot about the despair of his brother's fate, he forgot about _everything_ except that this was the way that he was going to die, as nothing more than a broken puppet in Alastair's sadistic hands, just waiting and waiting and _waiting_ for the end.

He saw red and then black, and something acrid burned in his throat and up his nose. He gagged on it before his mouth clamped shut as a wave of spasms overtook him with a ferocity that nearly wrenched his limbs from his body. His knee sang out with a discord of fresh hurt, and his body heaved itself upward in a desperate attempt to breathe.

This ordeal had bled him dry and now the demon intended to rip his very soul from his body, millimeter by excruciating millimeter.

Falling back to the altar, Dean's vision went entirely blank, and the only way he could measure his existence was by the measure of the pain. Throbbing, searing, grating, _weeping_--

It seemed like much later when he heard a voice, different now, loud and demanding. There was an order, firm and unquestionable: _stop_.

Dean's instinct was to obey, to follow the order, to find some possibility of reprieve, but it was more than he could manage.

The pain skipped a beat, but did not abate, and Dean felt like he was stretched so thin that he might just be invisible.

When the voice cut the air again, though, Dean realized he couldn't deny this voice anything.

_Stop_, it said, echoing in Dean's ears.

This time, his body obeyed, giving up its fight and submitting itself to this new presence. The tension of the torture left him with a rush, and, with nothing to keep him up, he slumped limply to the altar, defeated and broken.

It was over, at least. Dean thought of Sam one last time, wondering if his brother had found this same end, but it was closer than Dean thought, and he slipped into unconsciousness with no fight at all.

-o-

Humans were such fragile beings. All that flesh and blood, barely bound together by the easily frayed stretch of skin. Not even an inch of malleable substance to protect the precious inner workings.

And they were so soft. Impressionable. They bruised like peaches, and healed just as slowly.

Souls were much less easily damaged; they withstood the plaintive torture much better. Souls could feel pain, they could imagine the blood, but they would never bleed out until they surrendered completely to their fate. It was often a drawn out process, a psychological game of _push, push, push_.

It was fun, of course, but nothing like this. Real blood. Real flesh. Real incisions. Alastair's handiwork was an indelible masterpiece that his victims would carry with them like scars. He got to experience this so rarely, and every time he did, he could hardly stand the intoxicating high it gave him.

But, oh--how _quickly_ they were spent. Faster than sand through an hourglass, their strength and will were fleeting things, so easily brought to climax and then discarded.

Sam and Dean Winchester had been an apt pair for torture; that much was undeniable. Even without Azazel's claim on them, they had such defiance, such strong-willed dispositions. They were a perfect pair of gnats who fancied themselves as eagles in this fight, and Alastair loved nothing more than providing his pupils with a timely lesson in humility.

All good things, however, surely did come to an end. His final act of mercy--the overture to his beautiful, painful symphony. They had sung for him right on key, and he'd played them like fiddles at all the right moments, and now it was time to take that final bow into oblivion.

Facing the reality of their lots had been harder than he'd anticipated; it left them without as much left to give during this last act. Nonetheless, they did not disappoint.

Dean was the stoic one in the end, his body contorted and mouth open, but nothing more than choked gurgles came out. And his eyes were open, bless his precious little heart. Open and fading. Alastair savored it as the last vestiges of hope died in the human's bloodshot eyes. Sam's had gone much quicker, fading almost before the games began. Dean was just more fun like that.

But Sam--he was certainly the one to watch _writhe_. That long, human body was more than a perfect canvas for his work; it was the perfect performer for his finishing number. Sam's elongated limbs vibrated with pain, twisting and turning with unmitigated anguish. The boy's screams echoed through this host's body, pristine and raw, ripped cruelly from his bloodied and swollen throat.

Killing them both at once had been something of a whim--Alastair had to admit, he enjoyed his theatrics. The building pitch of their joined torment had been something of a fantasy that he simply could not overlook.

But watching the blood well up from Sam's damaged throat, watching him choke on it until a blood vessel burst in his eye was just too much fun. This one would have to go first. He could dislocate the other shoulder first, then pop both hips, perhaps tear them clean off in something akin to an old-fashioned draw and quarter. See how long Sammy was when laid out in a line.

It was beautiful. Beyond what he'd imagined. More than he'd dared to hope.

So much so that Alastair didn't even hear the other voice until it was too late to mount any kind of preemptive defense.

It was a low growl. Strong and sure and...familiar. "Stop."

Though danger was present, the curiosity overwhelmed it. He knew that voice. He knew that voice well. Only...with a different timber. When it was begging for mercy.

Or pledging its undying and eternal allegiance.

"Stop, _now_," the voice ordered again, as though it did not doubt it would be heeded.

Yet, Alastair had no reason to heed it. No creature on heaven or earth posed much threat to him, of that much he was sure. He was an able fighter, and methodical in his techniques. Rising to the top in Hell was no easy task, and yet Alastair had wormed his way up there without as much as a viable threat.

Decisions, though. Decisions. Alastair liked to have his cake and eat it, too. These two could die now, or they could die in five minutes; either would be just as lovely. And this little addition to his symphony? Was far too tempting to pass up.

With a chuckle, Alastair dropped his hands, each Winchester brother collapsing lifelessly as he did. Dean's head lolled on the altar, exhaling a breathless gasp, while Sam fell immediately into a pervasive stillness that suggested that Alastair had perhaps misjudged how much that body had had left to give.

There were other pressing needs, though.

"You know," Alastair began, conversationally. "Time up top has made you more confident of yourself." He turned leisurely toward his guest. "Makes me think you've forgotten your place. Right under me." His eyes settled on the figure, the excitement of it all flaring deep within him. "Have you truly forgotten so soon, John?"

His eyes held steady, pinning his former apprentice with a knowing look.

John kept himself steady, raising his chin and meeting the gaze unrepentantly. The familiar features were stony, darkened with unflinching black eyes. "This is no business of yours."

Alastair's scoff was genuine. "I beg to differ. Azazel's master plan of sorts is business of all of our kind."

John remained stiff, unwavering. "You want to bring about the end just as much as we all do."

Alastair raised his eyebrows with good-natured incredulity. "A bit presumptuous these days, aren't we, Johnny? You _know _what I want, and Azazel's silly endgame isn't really at the top of my list."

John's replied was quick, almost reflexive. "You want pain and destruction. Chaos and havoc."

It was like a child reciting a line. Accurate, but totally missing the point. Alastair made a low noise of disappointment in the back of his host's throat. "All that time with me, and you never really got it, did you?"

John's jaw tightened, but he did not reply.

Alastair continued. "It's not about chaos. It's about _order_. My methods...they are cruel, this is true, but there is _logic _to them. Each cut I make, I make it in accordance with the balance of the universe. It's only right. All those souls in Hell are there to receive their punishment for what they've done. I offer them quintessential absolution."

A smile twisted John's lips, turned feral with what Alastair recognized as disbelief. His black gaze held nothing but hatred. "And what about them?" he asked, nodding toward his broken sons.

He followed John's gaze, looking at Dean's limp form and Sam slumped figure. He winced a bit with a semblance of empathy. "I will admit, my choices here are a bit...unorthodox." He turned his gaze back to John. "But surely you understand that I don't merely pull the wings off a butterfly just to watch it squirm. They have to die. To stop Azazel's plan. To stop his unnatural attempt to tilt the playing field in his favor. He's stacking the deck, and no one--angel or demon or Lucifer himself--should do that."

Alastair held his hands out, beseechingly. "Azazel brought your boys into this, not me. It's not personal, John. Surely you know me well enough to know that."

John growled. "You say that with their _blood _on your hands."

Alastair looked down, grinning in embarrassment. He dropped his hands. "What's a little torture between old friends, eh?"

John did not return the smile. "They are off limits."

"Oh, really?" Alastair asked, his voice taking on a pointed tone. "Isn't that interesting? So says the _servant _who betrayed _his master_ for the highest bidder?"

John stepped forward, boldly. "So this is about revenge? Getting back at me for joining forces with Azazel?"

Alastair's good humor faded, just slightly, but enough for his face to twist into a sneer. "For joining forces with a demon who has no sense of respect. No sense of _order_. After everything I did for you, you threw it away on something like _him_. What was it, John, that turned you? He offered you a nice, new body? Is that it? I could have given you that, and so much more. I could have made you greater than he ever will. And I could have _protected them_."

John's eyes darkened and he edged forward again. "Is that what you're doing now? Protecting them?"

Alastair shrugged. "I'm offering them a chance at mercy," he replied with as much truth as he could muster. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, appraising his former student. "You do know what awaits them, don't you? If they are what Azazel has planned? Or has your new master not told you the whole story--about how this ends?"

"He told me," John snapped, his voice brittle.

It was almost a surprise. "And you still went along? To condemn your sons to _that_?" When John made no reply, Alastair's was almost awed. "So much for the loving father."

"I have my reasons," John seethed.

Alastair smiled a bit, his swagger returning. "And so do I."

"You know I can't let you do this."

Head cocked, Alastair could not resist the question. "Which John is speaking now? Azazel's pathetic lackey? Or Daddy Dearest?"

John bared his teeth in a feral grin. "Both."

There was barely time to brace for the burst of energy that emanated from John's body. Alastair's instincts were strong, though, and he deflected it in time. The effort left him more rumpled than he would have liked. "Why, John," he said. "You've been practicing."

John lowered his chin, eyes narrowed. "You have no idea," he said, throwing another powerful volley Alastair's way.

But Alastair was prepared this time, and shielded himself well before following up with a burst of his own.

It had been a long time since Alastair got his hands dirty in a fight, which made this his lucky day. Two measly humans to torture and a demon to fight? His maniacal side was going to get quite the workout today. And to think of all the years he'd spent with the souls in Hell. He'd been missing out. At least he could understand that much about Azazel--hanging around with the human folk was _far _more entertaining.

Entertaining _and _productive. After all, he'd gotten his information, and he'd had his way with the brothers. Whatever happened next--was just icing on the cake. Dead or alive, whole or broken, Alastair knew what was necessary to stop this so-called plan from unfolding. Even if he didn't end it here and now, the power of the information he held was enough to unravel the entire thing whenever he felt like doing it.

He ducked a blow from John, following up with a lashing of his own.

Win, lose, or draw--Alastair didn't need to stack the deck to know he'd come out on top.

-o-

Pain.

Not just in every part of his body, every part of his soul--but _who he was_.

Dean _was_ pain.

His entire existence pulsed with it, he was embodied by it, and he had no will to fight it off. Not anymore.

He could be dead.

Dean hoped he was.

There was nothing for him here, nothing tethering him to this life. He willed himself to let go, to let _everything _go, but there was nothing there to surrender to. He was a captive to this oppressive state, ensnared by his own hopelessness and _pain_.

He couldn't go back. He couldn't go forward. He was just _stuck_, shackled to this altar of failure and agony.

His mind wandered. Past helplessness, into memory. At first, it was nothing more than the pain--_slices, burns, flaying_--but there had to be more. There had to be more.

Something good. Dean wanted to remember something good. Good must exist; it had to exist as a counterpoint to this unending misery.

Something positive. The satisfaction of a hunt ended successfully. Bones burned, people saved. A beer in celebration, a warm girl in bed.

The way Sam slouched in the passenger seat of the Impala. The way his nose scrunched up when he was deep in thought. The sound of Sammy's laugh.

They were cold comforts. The memories are too distant to penetrate this place he was in. This place he was forever bound to.

Failure. Another failure. He couldn't even comfort himself in his dying moments. He added it to the list, right after _getting Sam killed--again_.

Then, he blinked. He blinked again, and there was light. Somewhere, far away, but he could _see _it.

Light--and sound.

Movement.

Scuffles across the floor. Thumps and pounding, grunts and curses.

A fight.

He wasn't dead--not yet. The realization came to Dean, pulling him just far enough from the pain to recognize his plight. He was still on the altar (always on the altar). Shackled and bleeding, but Alastair was--

He didn't know where Alastair was. Just that he wasn't here.

With this semblance of awareness, Dean rolled his head. His vision was hazy, dim around the edges. Sam was still stretched, forgotten and discarded on his altar. His body looked broken, shoulder still visibly out of joint, his whole arm a wretched mess, and Dean couldn't tell if Sam had been lucky enough to let go first.

Then, the noises were louder, clearer. _The fight_, he reminded himself. Alastair had to be in a fight. Dean wouldn't be alive any other way. Someone had to have stopped his death. Someone or something.

Dean wondered if he should be grateful or angry. This needed to be _over_. He already had an eternity to suffer for his failures. He didn't need anything in life to prolong it, to _add_ to it.

His eyes blinked again, slower this time, resting closed just for a moment. He didn't know who had stopped this, but they were putting up a fight. One hell of a fight. Alastair might actually laugh at that.

Maybe Alastair would win. Maybe whatever had interrupted would win and end this even faster.

Then, his body went rigid, almost suspended off the table.

"You pick, John," Alastair's voice said, and it was familiarly taunting, but different, too. Ragged. Tired. "Me, or the boys."

For the first time, he heard the other presence speak. "Coward," the new voice seethed, with a low growl.

Alastair laughed. "Self-preservation," the demon returned. "Something you should understand all too well."

There was a pause, long and indefinite. Dean's fate hung in the balance. A merciful death, or an unknown destiny.

Then, came the gruff reply. "Leave them alone," the second voice ordered, with something of resignation. Defeat.

"As you wish," Alastair said, his suave tone returning to normal. "For now, anyway."

With that, Dean was released. The space shook, rattling the ceiling and breaking a window. The entire room resounded with an echoing boom that faded in time with the still frantic beating of his worn out heart.

The pain was acute now, readily available to his senses. He could taste the blood in his throat, feel the snot clogged in his nose. His foot tingled from the shock and his knee was swollen in his crusted and shredded jeans.

Breathing was a daunting task, staggered efforts leaving him even more winded.

The pain was drowning him, a slow and horrific way to go, feeling every part of his body slowly die away while he was awake and too weak to stop it.

A sob choked him and he shuddered with it, his despair overwhelming him.

Then, something warm touched him, nothing more than a soft caress smoothing along his forehead. "Easy, Dean," the voice soothed. It sounded rough like gravel, but still _warm_. Familiar. _Safe_. "I've got you."

Something was pulling at the chains around his hands, then his feet. The shackles fell away almost effortlessly, and the taste of freedom settled over him with a bittersweet futility. Free, but too weak to take it. Too weak to even curl in to protect himself.

"You're going to be okay," the voice said. "I'm going to take care of it."

The promise almost made Dean want to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. After the torture, after having his body ripped and his mind shredded--_I'm going to take care of it_.

But then, Dean wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it.

Because he knew this voice. He knew this presence.

He blinked, willing his eyes to see once again. Craning his neck, he turned his face toward the voice, swallowing dryly with his raw throat. "Dad?"

Then, his eyes focused, and the image was clearer than anything else.

His father smiled. "Hey, son."

A smile spread brokenly across Dean's face. "Dad," he breathed with relief and comfort.

A line of worry flickered across his father's face. "Take it easy, Dean," his father ordered gently. "I need to go take care of Sam, too."

Dean nodded at that, because it seemed right. Like it always had been. Like it was always supposed to be.

His father was here now. His father would take care of them.

That was all Dean needed to know.

Lazily, Dean let his head roll to the side, watching as his father moved to the altar where Sam was. John's motions were careful, measured, _loving_--removing Sam's restraints before rolling him gingerly onto his side.

Sam remained still through the ministrations, lax features not so much as twitching. His brother looked dead, but Dean trusted now that he wasn't. Their father wouldn't let that happen.

And their father was here now. Their father was here to _save _them.

John looked up, meeting Dean's eyes, his face flushed with worry. "Dean, we need to get you two some help. Do you understand?"

Dean just nodded.

His father wet his lips, appraising Dean with knowing eyes. "Do you trust me?"

The question was simple, but it made Dean pause. He remembered reasons to say _no_. He remembered his father's sudden disappearance when Sam was at Stanford. He remembered his father keeping them at bay for almost an entire year. He remembered his father's scathing disappointment when Sam didn't kill him in Missouri. He remembered his father's last words, the order that nearly ruined all of them.

And Dean remembered his father's black eyes. Choking Sam. Killing his brother.

Things were fuzzy again, and Dean felt his consciousness ebb precariously. He wasn't sure what was real anymore--it was all a mess in his head--but it was with certainty that he knew this: their father _saved_ them. Just like he always had. Just like he always would.

"Dean," John said again. "Do you trust me?"

Swallowing hard, Dean forced his eyes to focus, meeting his father's crystal brown gaze. In that moment, there was no other answer to give.

He nodded, once, but definitively.

A look passed over his father's face before it settled into resolve. Then, his father flicked his wrist, and the world went black.

END


End file.
